


Harmony; A Peace Between Body and Soul

by dadmilkman



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-22 17:58:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6089251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dadmilkman/pseuds/dadmilkman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he was younger, Hawke had been afraid of the dark. Now he knew there were worse things to fear. </p><p>“There is a great deal of sorrow in the mortal world. Whatever fate the Maker has bestowed upon us, or them, I do not believe anyone deserves to suffer." Hawke meets a Spirit of Compassion, and his life is thrown in chaos in its wake. Was it fate or destiny that brought this spirit into Hawke's life? Either way, he never would have guessed how everything would change - for the better, or for the worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Two things of note: 
> 
> 1) All the ages, (or dates and order of events, which come into more detail in later chapters) I describe are from the timeline on the official DA site, or from the timeline on the DA wikia ( found here http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Dragon_Age_(time_period) ) (That wikia article is really helpfully actually because I was always confused how Inquisition was happening in regards to DA2, and I didn't know how many years DA2 or DA:I took, so that cleared a lot of things up for me.)
> 
> 2) Also, I also almost always have Bethany survive the escape from Lothering instead of Carver, even if Hawke is a mage, too (I'm soft on her, sue me). 
> 
> Without spoiling anything past the first chapter or canon events in game, here https://i.gyazo.com/54532d6ec8db40cb39cf3b018c8401e3.png is a timeline with the dates I collected. 
> 
> UPDATE: I did a rough outline of each chapter, but the number of chapters may change depending on how things go. For now, expect 12 - 13 chapters in total.

Two years after it was discovered he had the gift of magic, Hawke meets a spirit for the first time at the age of ten. His father spent countless hours helping Hawke control his gift, and teaching him the ways and laws of mages and the uses of mana and lyrium. But as many times as he’d asked, Hawke’s father never let Hawke consciously into the fade. “Not a place for young boys,” he had called it, despite the fabulous tales he would spin of his travels to the fade. It wasn’t until Hawke’s tenth nameday that his father brought out the tell-tale bottles of lyrium, and he knew what his father was preparing for; he was going to visit the fade for the first time while conscious.  
  
His mother had protested. Fiercely, he remembered. He recalled wondering why they treated him like such a child. He’d already had magic for over two years, he wasn’t an amateur! But his father insisted, saying it was something that Hawke needed to “see for himself”. Hawke didn’t know what his father meant by that, but didn’t get any good feelings from the way his face fell into a grimace.  
  
His father spent the better part of an hour warning against demons and spirits, telling him to remember that nothing in the fade was truly real. He said that temptations that a demon or spirit offered were mere illusions of happiness. He warned Hawke about talking to any of them, saying that even the most experienced mages could fall to a demons temptation in the blink of an eye. Hawke nodded and kept his hands folded as he listened to his father speak.  
  
Finally, he entered.  
  
The fade was… strange. Twisted and misshapen, the ground was hilled in some places and flat in others, densely shrubbed with odd looking trees and plants whose limbs drooped towards the earth like gravity was too strong. Hawke felt like his feet weren’t properly on the ground and kept looking down at his shoes. There was no wind, no animals, no heat or warmth, and no sounds besides his own breathing. The fade just… was. He wandered for a bit, stumbling upon things he didn’t understand and thus didn’t go near - a hulk of rock that looked like a person; a statue with tentacles for arms and swords in each of its tentacle hands; a chest with no lock that seemed to glow; a tree that dripped something black and tar-like from its bark. Hawke heeded his father's warnings and didn’t meddle with anything he found, but his curiosity grew with each new discovery.  
  
He found a path - or what seemed to be a path - and walked down the side of a large hill for a while before coming to a small clearing. Nothing was there except for an old pedestal fountain whose crumbling stone leg looked ready to fall at the push from a strong wind. Not that there was any wind here. Hawke decided to enter the clearing, hoping to continue through it and past the strange fountain. He aimed to follow the path where ever else it led, curious to see what other things his young mind had never seen. It was a voice that made him pause, a gentle voice that seemed to come from behind him, from the section of the path he’d just left. He stopped and turned, knowing before he faced the figure what it had to be. This was the first time he’d heard anyone speak; even Hawke hadn’t said a single word aloud since he’d entered the fade.  
  
It was a demon.  
  
Or maybe… maybe it was a spirit? Hawke’s immediate thought was that it would be a demon, but… the glowing figure before him looked too… normal to be a demon. Not that Hawke had anything to compare the appearance of a demon too, but surely, he felt, anything here who was ill intentioned would look strange, like the strange things surrounding it. This figure looked out of place, blurry around the edges and glowing brightly with golden light. So it wasn’t exactly normal, of course, but more humanoid looking than anything Hawke had seen so far. Hawke was relieved that at least it didn’t have tentacles for arms.  
  
“Garret,” the figure said. Hawke didn’t wonder how the demon knew his name, distracted as he was by its mere presence. “Garret Hawke.”  
  
Hawke tried to speak, something brave and witty like “you can't fool me, demon!” but felt no words leave his mouth. This figure seemed to have stilled him with its gaze alone.  
  
“I’ve been waiting to meet you, Hawke,” it said. Each time the spirit said Hawke’s name, he felt something stir inside his chest. He knew he should leave while he still had the chance, but didn’t move. “I am Compassion.”  
  
Hawke said nothing, still, just staring at this spirit, the one who called itself compassion. A Spirit of Compassion. Hawke had hoped for something more exciting, maybe a dragon or a giant walking tree. Of course, as breath-taken as he was in front of this spirit, he had a wonder that he might just keel over at the sight of a dragon on his first time in the fade. He shrugged and cleared his throat, finding his voice.  
  
“Hello,” he said, and then cursed himself. His father had warned him against exactly this. Speaking to a demon or spirit was, on no uncertain terms, a foolish thing to do. Yet Hawke was so enthralled by curiosity he had to continue. And this spirit seemed nice enough so far. It greeted him by name and stood a ways back, not doing anything, not moving. Just glowing with a golden haze.    
  
“Are you going to hurt me?” Hawke asked. He hoped this spirit - Compassion - wasn’t offended by the question. Of course, it had already known his name, what else did it know?  
  
“I would never hurt you,” Compassion said. Hawke thought he saw it smile. Did spirits smile? This one did.  
  
“How do I know you’re not lying?”  
  
“I am Compassion - that is my name and my namesake,” its voice was slow and quiet, but Hawke could hear it in perfect clarity over the stillness of the air. “I feel for the pain of others and have sympathy towards their plights. Their pain is my pain. I would not wish to cause more.”  
  
“Did you want something from me?” Hawke asked. He scowled, thinking that came out a little rude. But the spirit smiled again, and said in that same flowing and gentle voice, “Nothing. I just wanted to meet you.”  
  
He - Hawke assumed it was a he, at least - looked off into the distance, and Hawke followed his gaze, but saw nothing.  
  
“I fear you are leaving soon,” it said. Hawke didn’t know what the spirit meant - he didn’t have any immediate plans to leave. He rather wanted to stay and talk to Compassion some more. For a spirit, it seemed nice enough. But in just a second, the world around him started growing fuzzy and distorting around itself. Hawke was afraid something bad was happening, but the spirit seemed calm. Its presence - despite the questionable nature of the world around them that looked like it was collapsing inward - seemed to calm him, too. And with the spirit's eyes still on his, he woke up.  
  
  
  
//  
  
  
  
Five years and one dream. Hawke awoke to the interior of his room. The moon had hidden itself behind a dark tuft of clouds, determined as the night was to keep them shrouded in the dark. His eyes burned with the glowing afterimage of a golden silhouette. He felt as if he could reach out his hand into the darkness and grab ahold of it. But the spirit had slipped away again, back into the realm of demons where it belonged. Hawke never saw Compassion for long nor often. He was fifteen years old.  
  
Four years and two dreams. He raced his brother down the narrow path through the woods. This was the way to their favorite fishing spot, a secret they’d kept hidden well from the other boys in town. Lothering was small, and greedy eyes watched them bring home a basket of fish from the trees before night fell. His family would have food plenty for another week, so they would not share this with the others. Hawke never told anyone about his dreams. They were few and further between, and his father would scold him for them, no doubt. But you can’t control your dreams. And Hawke couldn’t control meeting the spirit again. They didn’t speak much, and Hawke never felt danger in his presence. It had only been three times since he’d first met him. Three times, and nine years. Hawke was safe, and Compassion was never a danger. Sometimes, if the sun was warm, Hawke would find a spot to lie down near the lake and hoped he dreamed of him. Hawke was nineteen years old.  
  
Two years and one dream. His mother couldn’t stop crying. Hawke grieved in silence, not letting anyone see his pain. His father had been taken from them, and no one had been ready. How do you prepare for the death of a loved one? Hawke didn't know. He visits Compassion that night, and Hawke knows he has missed that familiar glow. He is twenty-one years old. His father will never age another day.  
  
Three years and one dream. They run for as long as the sun sits in the sky. It’s not safe enough to stop, never could enough distance be put between themselves and the wretched pile of burning buildings that used to be Lothering. Their home was gone, the only place he’d ever known Compassion. The place his father had raised him and taught him of magic, where he’d watch his sister smile and swing from his arms, where he’d help his mother mend clothes and brew tea, where he raced and wrestled with his brother. Now, they had nowhere to go they could truly call home. And as sharp as the grief was, he doesn’t cry when his brother’s dead body lies in the dirt as they flee. They can’t even bury him. Hawke doesn’t cry for years. When they leave, he feels like a part of him stays behind. He is twenty four years old.  
  
One year and no dreams. Kirkwall is a strange city. Hawke sees people fight in the alleys, sees beggars sit down the street from wealthy nobles who scoff at their outstretched and empty palms. He tosses in his sleep while the towering buildings around his room in his uncle's hovel block out the view of the stars. It was an eerie and quiet night of the city. When he was younger, Hawke had been afraid of the dark. Now he knew there were worse things to fear. There is unrest here, and Hawke misses his home. His real home, his home in Lothering. He doesn’t dream of Compassion; his mind has been too busy as of late. Too much pressure was already riding on his shoulders; he’d been the man of the family since his father’s death but never been forced to live the role till this day. Find a better home for his mother and sister. Find an actual job, and a source of income. Find a way to deal with his grief. Find a way to get over the things he’d lost. Find a way to protect his little sister. Nothing was ever presented on a silver platter. He is twenty five years old.  
  
The Kirkwall sun is harsh and the morning air is bitter and stark. Hawke hates this disgusting city. It’s pompous nobles and useless officials and obscene amount of templars. Two apostates wandering the streets in a city run by templars - the pickings were too easy. Hawke watched his sister’s back every time they left the house together, and he hated letting her go out alone. “I’m not a child,” Bethany would say. She appreciated Hawke’s concern but she knew she had to look after herself.  
  
But all Hawke could see when he looked at her was the smiling little girl who begged him to push her on the rope swing or got mud all over her face as she splashed in rain puddles. Hawke’s heart ached at the memories they’d never be able to have again. Not in this city, and never in this life. Not with their father dead and their brothers body rotting on the side of some god-forsaken road, picked apart by darkspawn or raiders by now. Hawke wouldn’t let Bethany see his anger and revulsion. For her sake, he needed to be strong.  
  
Hawke took jobs wherever he could find them. Clearing squatters out of abandoned buildings, killing slavers who haunted the streets at night, robbing rich nobles to sell their possessions to other rich nobles. What little money they raked in kept the family fed and put a fire in the hearth. It was more than he could ask for, at this point. A few of the errands they accepted let them stumble into new people. An elf bent on revenge; a blood mage who cared about things too much for her own good; a healer who tried to restore peace to the world; a pirate who made up for her lack of subtlety with her charm and quick wit. Hawke never expected to make friends in this town, but wasn’t unhappy that he did. Although, he wasn’t exactly pleased with becoming too attached to anything Kirkwall had to offer. He wasn’t ready to replace Lothering as his home, not yet. And he didn’t think he could ever call this city a home.  
  
He would make do with the small victories he could find them. Playing cards and trading jokes with his friends at the tavern, or spending evenings with his sister winding through the warm paths of the coast along the sea, or letting his mother spoil them with cheap cakes and weak tea she managed to buy off some pitying merchant. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough. Hawke tried to make himself feel better by believing that when you hit the bottom, things could only go up. Looking back at his ill-informed sentiment, he wished he had known how wrong he was on that account.  
  
Hawke could feel the pressing weight of the ground above their heads the moment they enter the caves. “The Deep Roads”, they were called. Fitting. No amount of light in the darkness could shine bright enough to show the end of their path. The roads did seem to go on forever, deeper and deeper into the dirt. He wished he hadn’t agreed to this nonsense effort.

Hawke tried to still the quake im his bones that make his stomach stir with unease. His primal and childhood fear of the dark was coming back too sudden. Bethany placed a hand on his shoulder that made him jump, but he gave her a shaken smile in return. Her face was tinged blue, illuminated by the lyrium veins that danced across the walls like lightning. Fenris trailed behind them, sword drawn and face taut. He hadn’t lowered it since they’d started walking. Varric led ahead, Bianca in his ready hands. Hawke couldn’t let his fear show, not when so much was riding on his help in their escape. Everyone’s lives were resting in each other's hands; Hawke refused to be the shaken and crumbling leg that brought them all down with him if he failed.

“If we get out of here, I’m never sleeping in the dark again,” Hawke said. His voice had a noticeable keen that everyone ignored. Blighted deep roads and all their darkness.

“ _When_ we get out of here,” Varric countered. “You’ll have enough money to personally commission the sun to sit in your room while you sleep.” Considering their predicament, Varric was putting on very good airs. Betrayed by his brother to be locked in the bowels of the darkroads with no conceivable way out? Why, just another day.

“That’s a pile of gold I’d like to see,” Hawke said. He laughed and pulled an arrow from the fallen body of a corpse at his feet. He tossed it at Varric who caught it and replaced it in his quiver. Bethany stepped carefully over the corpses she’d just personally slain. Fenris wiped his bloodied hands on his clothes, looking disgusted. This was going fabulous.

“It’s not all bad,” Varric said. They turned towards what they hoped was the exit and followed what they thought looked like the remains of a path. “If you get scared, at least Broody here glows in the dark.”

Fenris scoffed when Hawke chuckled and Bethany giggled under her breath.

“My markings are not a spectacle,” he said dryly. Hawke felt like Fenris wasn’t taking this whole left-for-dead things very well.

“It’s called a joke, Broody. You’re making the atmosphere worse. I feel like it’s going to rain down here if one of us doesn’t try to lighten things up.”

“No, let’s not fight,” Bethany said as Fenris opened his mouth to retort. She sounded out of breath, but then again they all probably were. “We should focus on walking for now. Besides, I don’t feel like listening to you bicker anymore. I think if someone calls Fenris 'Broody' one more time his head is going to explode, and then where will we be?”

“I don’t think Sunshine is helping things any,” Varric said. He was failing to hold in his laughter. Fenris shook his head and continued forward while Varric collected himself, and then everyone was quiet. The sounds of their footsteps bounced off the walls and darted in both directions of the tunnel, making it sound like they were surrounded. So far down into the deep roads, they might have been. It’d been a few days since they’d started trying to find their way back to the surface. No one had talked much till now. Varric was too furious with anger, and without his witty comments and jibes to start conversations, everyone else kept to themselves. Bethany was right, they needed to focus on finding an exit. Varric seemed certain that there was another way to the surface somewhere, saying you would be “stupid as a nug” to make a cave with only one way out.

For all their sakes, Hawke hoped he was right, and they pressed on.

Their provisions were low and no one was really sure how much longer it would take to reach the surface once they actually found an exit. They’d been traveling for a little over two days since Bartrand’s betrayal, but where were they going? At the start, they were already a week from the surface and for what it was worth, now it might be a week and two days.

They ran into all sorts of monsters; the veil was thin here, and demons came easily from the Fade into the land of the living. Shades and golems, and demons of horror or pride lurked around every corner. There were even some things that Hawke had never heard of, like rock wraiths. Varric’s jaw almost fell out of his head when they all saw them for the first time.

“Those aren’t even supposed to _exist_ ,” he said. He quickly aimed Bianca as the wraiths converged towards them. “They’re part of old legends, only half-mad miners and nug-humpers ever believed they were real.”

But they were real, in fact, a feat Hawke might have been impressed by at any other time. Now though, it was one more thing to look out for.

“Great,” he said as the last wraith fell and they left the clearing as quickly as possible. “Well, if I ever meet a nug-humper, I’ll be sure to tell him these things say hello.”

“You and me both,” Varric said. Hawke laughed until another clearing brought a fresh wave of wraiths and he was tempted to ask Varric how many more mystical creatures his dwarven legends held. Eventually they wound up in a part of the roads that looked more like it had some structure rather than just slabs of rock. The tunnel opened up and took form, actual laid stone floors and walls becoming visible in the distance.

“We’re close,” Varric said. None of them at all dared hoped he meant “close to the surface”. Just close to a way back. A ways down the tunnel they encountered yet another profane. This one was larger than the rest, a bit more humanoid looking than the others - if you could say that about a pile of boulders. It tried to reason with them, offering a way out if they could help it slay an enemy farther up the path. Hawke considered agreeing, thinking they were pretty limited on their options, but Varric shot an arrow right through what they all guessed was the creature’s head, and ended the deal.

“Not a smart idea,” he said. “Those things are part of the “scare your kids into behaving” legends, in case I forgot to mention.” Of all of them, Varric knew more about the shit they ran into down here than anyone, so Hawke took his word.

Even farther up the path another walk branched off and opened up to a medium sized clearing, one that Varric told them was used for storage of some kind. He suggested looking around for anything that they might be able to take or use, but before any of them could get that far, an enormous pile of rocks in the center of the room started moving and taking form. Bloody _rocks_ , Hawke should have known not to trust something so conspicuous looking. Of course it was another wraith, he supposed it only made sense. This one was large, much much larger than the ones they had faced before. With annoyance he supposed this was the “enemy” the other profane had spoken of.

And it was powerful, too. Everyone except Fenris kept their distance and attacked from long range, leaving him to take the creature head on. Hawke kept his eyes on him the whole time, watching him dart around the room trying to distract the profane so it didn’t attack anyone less armored or not as strong. Slowly their efforts paid off, the creature tiring of fighting four opponents at once. With luck, it wouldn’t call any reinforcements and they stood a chance at coming out of this mostly unscathed.

Hoping that one final, powerful move might finish it off, Hawke nodded at the others in warning before everyone ducked out of the way. Raising his arms, he released a storm of hail down from the sky - well, not the sky really. The ceiling, maybe. There wasn’t as much moisture in the air as there would be on the surface, so the spell was harder to complete, but the wraith eventually fell to the constant onslaught of sleet, hail, and snow down upon it. It froze in place, literally, and then Varric shot a volley of arrows into it’s chest and it shattered into pieces, bits of rock flying off in every direction. Breathing heavy, hardly believing it was over, Hawke shrugged at Varric and Varric smiled. Just another day.

They found a door at the opposite end of the clearing and a key in the treasure that the profane had been guarding. Gathering everything they could carry, they left the clearing, happy to hear the door shut behind them. After just an hour’s travel Varric declared that the road ahead was definitely a way back to the surface. Hawke suggested they pitch camp for the night and sleep while they had a chance at peace. Bethany mended a small fire while Fenris and Varric laid out bedding to sleep on. Hawke walked a few paces in either direction of their makeshift camp to check for traps or lurking enemies. Things were going well enough, and at least no one had died.

One more year, and one more dream. He missed Compassion’s golden glow as soon as he woke up, and held his eyes closed in an attempt to keep the memory close. His eyes finally open to darkness, the stench of darkspawn blood inescapable so far under the earth. The faint breathing of the others sound - if not peaceful - sleep around him quieted his nerves. Perhaps if they’d never gone on this foolish expedition in the first place, the future could have been different. It was a glimmer of hope that Hawke now wished he hadn’t clung too so desperately. And when he awoke to his sisters cold body at his side, her skin covered in dark veins of blight-tainted blood, he knew there were no such things as miracles.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hawke,” Fenris began, thinking something needed to be said to close the subject, but not knowing at all what to say. But instead, it was Hawke who broke the awkward silence.
> 
> “I can't stand it," he said, voice quiet as a whisper in the dark. "I don’t want to lose anyone else.” 
> 
> // Grief has been a long time coming, and it hits him hard and all at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Call me a cheater, but yes, this chapter DID used to be a separate work. Originally, this chapter was its own work titled "A Matter of Opinion", but I was trying so hard to write Chapter 2 for Harmony and I realized all I was doing was rewriting "A Matter of Opinion" over and over. The original work covers all the topics I wanted to cover in Chapter 2 of Harmony, and I didn't know how to write Chapter 2 without basically ripping off A Matter of Opinion and it was frustrating me to no end. So I ended up deleting that entire posting and using it to help write Chapter 2 of Harmony. I wanted to do Chapter 2 of Harmony some justice and I felt like anything I wrote besides what used to be A Matter of Opinion wouldn't be as good. I was happy with how that turned out and wanted to keep it relevant. I'm sorry if this caused any confusion. I've already started work on Chapter 3, and with luck I'll have it posted by the end of this week.

“Fenris.”   
  
Hawke’s voice drifted from the front of the group. Fenris was walking behind the others, one hand wrapped around his wrist as he wrung it back and forth. After weeks in the Deep Roads, they had finally resurfaced. But victory was not all theirs.    
  
The trip had been gruesome, to say the least. Varric had been sullen the entire week long march back towards the surface. He was, with no doubt, thinking on his brothers betrayal as he muttered vulgar obscenities under his breath. And Hawke, after the death of his sister from the Darkspawn’s infectious blood... Hawke had been very quiet. 

Fenris wondered if he should attempt consolation, but decided to hold his tongue. In the death of others, surely he had plenty of experience. But in all of the past he knew, he never had someone close to him perish. He hadn’t let anyone become close enough for him to grieve over their loss. At first, he tried to compare it to how he felt when he had slain the Fog Warriors, but even that was not the same. His apathetic murder of the rebels could hardly be compared to the death of a loved one. 

  
But even so, there was another issue still troubling him; the lyrium idol they had stumbled upon right before Bartrand locked them in the Deep Roads. Fenris remembered the way the atmosphere changed the moment he walked into the room. He wasn’t certain it was pure lyrium until Varric spoke up in wonder, confirming his suspicions. It felt wrong. The room felt too warm, a heat emanating from the idol the same way warmth emanates from a fire. He considered making his concerns known, but thought perhaps it was his markings that made him sensitive to the idol’s nature. And when Hawke picked up the idol with no immediate threats, Fenris believed he might have just been over reacting.    
  
But no, that couldn’t be true. For non-mage humans and elves, lyrium in its raw, unprocessed form was dangerous enough. A single slip of the hand was all it took; even the slightest touch could drive them mad. Varric wasn't immune, though as a dwarf he bore more fortitude against its pure form than any human or elf. Fenris was still susceptible to the lyrium’s power, but he assumed his own markings gave him a bit of leeway. He felt as if he were leeching strength from the veins, rather than just absorbing their power and falling victim to a slow death. But as a mage, Hawke could outright die from the contact.

Fenris hadn’t seen Hawke's adverse reactions to the lyrium until they started traveling back towards the surface. Most likely he’d been hiding it before, not wanting to bother the others with his discomfort. There was just  _ so much _ lyrium. Arcing like bolts of lightning across the walls, bursting through the stone as if the earth itself were bleeding. He’d seen Hawke shy away from the veins that wound up the enormous doorways as they proceeded, seen him grimace when a shift in position during battle left him near even a small cluster of lyrium fragments.    
  
The amount of lyrium surrounding them granted him an enormous boost in combat, making his spells more dangerous and wild. Fenris, too, felt the influence of the mineral. He was quicker, his attacks more thorough, his hands more deft. If he hadn’t been constantly suppressing them, his markings would have glowed non-stop. But as powerful as its influence was for Fenris, who was definitely an exception to the rules, it was even more so tremendous for Hawke. More than once, on their way back to the surface, while the air still stirred from the fall of an enemy, Hawke would then collapse to the ground. Overwhelmed by the sheer claustrophobic force of so much lyrium surrounding them for weeks at a time, he could hardly stand on his own unless the call of battle forced him to his feet, making him protect the last remaining members of his party. Hawke would not die here, and he would not allow the others to die, not after they had already lost Bethany.    
  
Fenris would gently heft a defeated-looking Hawke off the group, shouldering his weight as they pressed forward. Under other circumstances Hawke would have protested, insisting falsely that he was fine and didn’t need the help. But he accepted Fenris’ hand, wrapping an arm around one of his small shoulders as they walked, while Varric took the lead to scout ahead. When they weren’t fighting for their lives or stopping to let Hawke rest, Fenris was pondering a thought. He had to wonder why he had such adverse affects to the red lyrium, but not towards the “normal” lyrium strewn about the caverns. Deeper along the roads, they had encountered entire veins of raw red lyrium, and Fenris’ skin itched at just its proximity. Hawke had fallen unconscious after the defeat of an enemy they were forced to fight in close quarters. Veins of red lyrium caked had the walls, choking their eyes with its red glow and unnatural warmth. They exited the room as quickly as dwarvenly and elvenly possible. Silently they hoped that removing Hawke from the red lyrium’s presence would stop him from dying, at the least.    
  
Once Varric had assured them that they were just another day's travel away from surface, they pitched camp one last time, attempting to nurse the battered mage back to health. He was clearly so close to death it went without mention from either of them. Even once they reached the surface, Hawke was in no condition to move. It took him another few days of rest before he was able to walk without help. When he finally convinced them he was fine - as fine as he could believably be - they began the journey back to Kirkwall. Attempting to ease Hawke's burden, Fenris and Varric carried the largest of the packs, mostly heavy with treasure, which was a small victory at this point.    
  
Now, after all this, Fenris knew his worry about the lyrium had been no idle suspicion. Slowly, as though fearing Hawke might collapse at any moment, they worked their way back to Kirkwall. Hawke and Varric took the lead discussing their newfound fortune and the fate of Varric’s brother. Fenris trailed behind, lost in thought. He wrung his hands together, trying to rid himself of the itch he’d felt in his skin ever since coming in close contact with the lyrium idol. He did not know the nature of the red lyrium, and did not know why its presence, or difference from the “normal” blue lyrium, set him to such unease. He had never heard of red lyrium before, and might have asked Varric had he not also stated it wasn’t something he’d ever seen. It was strange, the way his markings had reacted. First to the idol, and then to the veins of red lyrium they had encountered throughout the remains of the thaig. He didn’t know what it was, but it was uncomfortable.    
  
“Fenris,” Hawke said again, coming to a halt. He waved Varric forward, falling into step beside Fenris with a concerned frown. His voice cracked as he spoke, his eyes sunken into his skull with a tired and deadened look. Fenris noticed his hands shaking violently as he grasped his staff, even as he asked, “Are you alright?”    
  
Fenris exhaled in frustration, letting his hands fall to his sides. He didn’t meet Hawke’s eyes as he responded, trying to keep his voice soft. How obvious it should have been that Hawke would be thinking of others much before he thought of himself. Thrown towards the brink of death more times to count, his own sister fallen into the hands of the blighted Darkspawn, and here he was asking Fenris if he was alright. The man was too selfless for his own good.      
  
“Should I not be asking you the same question?” Fenris wondered. Hawke paused a moment, face stricken, before he regained his composure.    
  
“I don’t think it’s quite set in yet,” he replied quietly. “It’s just like when Carver died. I kept calling out orders to him as we fought our way through the Darkspawn horde while we fled Lothering.” Hawke’s face looked blanched and Fenris regretted his comment. He hadn’t been speaking of Hawke’s sister, if truth be told. More so, he was wondering how Hawke was still holding himself up. If Fenris felt just a fraction of the pain and ache that the lyrium caused Hawke, he could only imagine how badly the man must have wanted to rip his own skin off and sink to the ground.    
  
“I keep thinking of the things I’m going to buy with my fortune once we sell off all the treasure we’ve found. There was a set of robes in the market I saw before we left, but hadn’t the coin to buy. I was going to get them for Bethany when we got back, in celebration, but now I...”    
  
Hawke was walking very close to Fenris, close enough that Fenris could feel the magic that seemed to pour out of his skin. Fenris’ markings always seemed to react to a mage in close contact, especially Hawke’s, who was the only mage he ever allowed close enough to notice this in the first place. He could - or rather, his lyrium markings could feel Hawke’s “aura”, as Hawke had explained once before. It was a small comfort that his magic felt more normal - if that could be said of magic at all - than the lyrium in the thaig had felt. Fenris wasn’t sure if he should be sorry, but he did anyway.    
  
“I apologize. I shouldn’t have… I should not have mentioned her.”    
  
Fenris had known Hawke for less than a year during the odd jobs they took together in Kirkwall, and he’d known his sister even lesser still. But, for a mage, she seemed a sweet girl. She and Hawke were alike, in some aspects, but Bethany had been more kind. After their initial encounter at Denarius' mansion, she had always tried to keep the peace when Fenris voiced his distrust over mages, even if she didn’t always agree with Fenris’ opinions. Hawke was often quick to anger, but Bethany would always have some well placed comment to distract him or set his mind at ease. Once she learned of the reason behind Fenris’ opinions for magic in general, she was more lenient towards his distaste. She never rose to argue or quarrel. Fenris didn’t know much about her, but he knew she was very kind. He could only imagine how kind she was to her family if she showed so much compassion towards a magic hating elf.    
  
“No, it’s fine,” Hawke said with a dry tone. “I mean, no. Actually, it’s not fine. But don’t apologize. Thank you for your concern.”    
  
Fenris nodded, but as soon as he was no longer distracted by their conversation, the itching in his skin returned in full force. He resumed wringing his hands together nervously; a quality very much unlike him.    
  
“Anyway, I was going to ask,” Hawke said with his eyes on the ground. He kicked a stone forward and it clattered off the path and out of sight. Hawke’s gaze remained on the trees ahead of them as he spoke.    
  
“Are you alright? You’ve seemed… on edge. Since we left the thaig, I meant.” He smiled slightly, more out of habit from making an attempt at humor than actual amusement. “More so than normal, I suppose.”    
  
Fenris was a bit surprised that Hawke had noticed so easily, not being the most perceptive person known to man. He was unsure what the truth to his question was. He stared ahead at the distant hills of the Wounded Coast over the horizon. In another few hours, they would be back in Kirkwall.    
  
“No, I don’t think I am,” he said finally. “The lyrium in the thaig was strange. My marking have been aching since we left, even when not active. It is… not something I have encountered before.”    
  
Hawke looked incredulous, humming in approval. “You could feel it too?” He asked curiously. “The moment we entered that room, I felt…” He waved a hand in front of him, as if to convey with a gesture what he was failing to put into words. “That whole room was as hot as lit kindling. That idol seemed to… glow, almost. Not with light, I mean. It was like it… was…  _ singing _ .”    
  
Fenris didn’t know if this was quite the same feeling he had gotten, but then again, he was no mage. Although, he supposed the fact that both he and Hawke had felt something inside them stir with unrest when they had entered that room was troubling, mage or no.    
  
“I fear my markings might have been reacting negatively to the red lyrium in the thaig. But I have never encountered hoards of pure lyrium before, so I would not know if it was the lyrium itself I was responding to, or the nature of the red lyrium. I have been wondering about the distinction. The thought that I can’t tell the difference is… troubling.”    
  
Hawke nodded in approval. “That, it is. When we get back to Kirkwall, perhaps I’ll see if I can learn anything about it… with as much discretion as possible, of course. If I find anything, I’ll be sure to let you know. Maybe it’ll help figure out why your markings are reacting they way they are.” Hawke paused, and then seemed to consider something.    
  
“Do you want me to try healing them?” He asked with caution. He was aware of Fenris’ distrust towards magic. Although he had allowed Hawke or Anders to heal him after battle, Hawke thought something that had no guarantee of success was out of question. “I don’t know what I can do, but… I mean, I can try. Or you can let Anders try, when we get back. He’s a much better healer than I am.”    
  
Fenris grimaced at the thought of the abomination touching him without the utmost necessity. “I’d rather not be in the abomination’s company any more than is required. I will deal with the markings aching. I have been since I received them.”    
  
Hawke snickered, although Fenris failed to see what was funny. “That’s a bit masochistic, isn’t it?” Hawke said with a grin. “I know you despise mages, and Anders especially, but surely you are more fond of me than you are towards him. I won’t force it, but if you want me to try anything, I can.”    
  
He appreciated Hawke’s offer and apparent concern and decided, perhaps this once, unnecessary magic would be allowed. With his permission, Hawke took one of Fenris’ palms against his, allowing a green glow of healing magic to wash over their clasped hands. Hawke’s magic was warm, and the markings on his hand and arm illuminated at the magics strong touch. After a moment of this, Hawke released him, but Fenris admitted that it felt no different than before. Lamenting that it was worth a try, they proceeded to catch up with Varric, who had strode further ahead during their conversation. Explaining their shared feelings once finding the idol, they asked Varric if he had felt something similar. He admitted to feeling the idol gave off a strange “energy”, as he put it, but had no further clues as towards the reason behind this than either Hawke or Fenris. Varric was surface born and didn’t have experience with mining lyrium like the dwarves back in Orzammar did, so he had nothing to compare it to.    
  
For now, they let the conversation die. All three of them had more pressing matters on their mind.    
  
They’d returned to Kirkwall and, after a small celebration that consisted just of a few pints at the hanged man, went their respective ways for a time. Hawke was... different after the return from their expedition. Sometimes, when Fenris dared to take Varric up on an offer of Wicked Grace, he would sit at Hawkes side and mindlessly watch his expression drift in and out of the present. His face would falter, his eyes wandering the room before settling somewhere far away, not quite seeing anything at all. He’d fall out of the conversation as though he had left the room. Fenris would shyly tap the back of his palm with one finger, bringing him back to the present at hand, and Hawke would shake his head with a sidelong glance at Fenris’ eyes as if in thanks.    
  
Something inside of them all seemed to have been left back in that thaig. Fenris had no inkling of an idea what that could mean, but he desperately wanted it back. Varric was more solemn, though perhaps this could be attributed to his brothers betrayal and his need for revenge. Fenris realized he was more “on-edge”, as Hawke had put it, jittery for the first few days after their return to Kirkwall. After spending weeks in what seemed like hell-on-earth, returning to the complacency of normal life was unreal by comparison. And Hawke. Hawke was more… well, he was just sad. The life was still in his eyes, making terrible jokes and one liners that even made Fenris crack the rare smile. But the heart seemed to have gone out of him. He was less willing to take risks. Less willing to throw himself into danger, unless that meant shielding others from the danger instead. Less eager to take up some cockamamie job, or fall into step with one of Isabela’s schemes.    
  
Hawke still took work, but was now more selective about the jobs he accepted and often ventured off alone rather than calling on his friends for help. Fenris accompanied him to jobs on occasion, typically along with the abomination, much to Fenris’ dismay. Since the day it had accidentally been unearthed, Hawke never talked about his sister. Not in company, either way, even when Hawke still visited Fenris’ decrepit mansion. They shared a bottle of wine and swapped stories of jobs they had recently taken or adventures they’d fallen into. Fenris enjoyed watching the way Hawke spoke with his hands when he described taking down a horde or smugglers or a group of thugs.    
  
Fenris never dared to bring up the subject of Bethany again. Even if Hawke needed someone to talk to, Fenris felt himself the least suited for the job. Even if he wanted to comfort Hawke, which he found himself wanting, he had no way of knowing how to go about it. So, regretfully, he let her death fall into the shadows, hoping against logic that Hawke hadn’t buried her away in the corner of his mind where he kept things that he believed were his fault.    
  
Futily, Fenris had tried to find even a sliver of information on what the red lyrium might have been, but he was forced to rely on word of mouth alone. His reading lessons with Hawke had been going well enough but he wasn’t at a skill level where he could pour himself into books about the subject. Once, he toyed with the idea of asking the templars, who undoubtedly knew more than he would about the properties of lyrium, but had cast it off after little consideration. Thought skilled as they were, conducting business with templars was ill suited; especially for someone in his position. An escaped elven slave with curious markings nosing about in the gallows for information about lyrium wasn’t something many might take kindly to. Varric had offered to talk to a few of his contacts to see what some of the more knowledgeable dwarves might know, but hadn’t returned any information as of yet. Alas, Fenris kept to himself.    
  
Hawke had made no word about the promise of information on lyrium, so with all leads coming to a dead end, Fenris sadly assumed no progress had been made. With reluctance, he had allowed the topic to fall back on his list of priorities, trying to replace it with his desire to finally confront Hawke about his sister’s death. After everything that had happened, after everything Fenris had seen Hawke suffer, he needed to be at least given the option to grieve. There was no need for Hawke to shoulder that burden alone, but Fenris was hiding behind his own cowardice and lack of experience. It was as much his and Varric’s fault she had died. No, truthfully, it was Bartrand’s. But still, Fenris could have protected her, taken that blow for her that would have caused her death. At least then, Hawke would be bearing the slighter weight of the death of someone he hardly knew, not the death of a family member.    
  
Fenris didn’t know how wrong he was on this account.    
  
It had been just a month since Bethany’s death and their return to the surface. Hawke tried to keep busy as a distraction, but more often than not he found himself in the Hanged Man with Isabela, spending more coin in one night than he would ever have been able to before. Every time he opened his coin purse he thought about his sister. This was what he got in return for her life? A few hundred sovereigns? And what was he doing with it, except spending it on ale and wine and getting drunk out of his head every night. He thought Bethany would be ashamed of him, but then he drank a few more pints until the thought left. Most of the time, Isabela would call for Fenris to bring Hawke home, drunk as he was, not able to navigate the streets on his own. Fenris knew from the day they came back that Hawke would refuse to talk about this. He never shared his pain with anyone else, always trying to coax a laugh out of others when the situation seemed grim. Fenris had never seen Hawke grieve over anything, and he never talked about anything from his past. How much had he kept locked away?

Attempting to finally cross this burning bridge, Fenris had been tiptoeing around the subject all evening as Hawke spilled over one of his Varric-like tales. He waited for Hawke to finish with a flurry of a chuckle, shaking his head as if even he couldn’t believe the story had really happened. 

“Hawke,” Fenris started, immediately unsure of how to continue. Hawke was gazing at the fire in the hearth. He held a bottle of wine in his grasp, rolling the neck between his hands but not drinking from it. Fenris had the feeling that Hawke knew what he was about to say.    
  
“Hawke,” he said again. “I know that it is an unpleasant subject -” Hawke’s eyes fell to the side before they closed in defeat, and Fenris almost stopped before he had a chance to make things worse. “- but we have not talked about your sister… about Bethany.”    
  
Fenris almost regretted saying her name aloud. He felt it wasn’t right for him to claim stake to her name. He had hardly known her, and while his grief for her was due, it was limited in the amount he suffered. He had known Bethany, yes, but not closely, and not entirely fondly. But she was a Hawke, and Fenris knew the role that family played in Hawke’s - in this Hawke’s - life. Hawke was silent, making no remark. Idly his hands picked at the label on the bottle, tearing little pieces of paper off the glass and tossing them to the floor. Fenris continued.    
  
“I don’t know if it is my place, and I don’t know if I can do anything to help. But if you wish to talk, I am here.” That was as simple as it could get, and Fenris scolded himself for the coldness of his words compared to what they could have been. Hawke’s opened his eyes and stared at his hands, still not speaking. They sat in silence for a time, and Fenris knew Hawke was deliberating in what to say. 

In the back of his mind, Hawke knew he had to deal with his feelings sooner rather than later. “Later” sounded the much better alternative, but he knew he couldn’t run from this forever. He ran from his grief over Carver’s death as well, and what good did that do him? Over a year later and he was still bitter about the subject, unresolved sadness that he’d crumpled up and thrown out in light of other problems they were dealing with at the time. He regrets trying to keep things locked away and not talk to anyone. Maybe if he talked about his feelings, he could snub them out before they got shoved to the back burner of his mind and never bothered with. 

 

But Hawke felt comfortable talking to Fenris , so maybe it was finally time to address things. He never asked too many questions, just enough to keep the topic present. And he always had a few bottles of wine floating around his house, that was a plus. And he much preferred talking to Fenris about this than anyone else. Aveline would be too busy to talk. Merrill was good company but her blatant optimism was a bit grating at times. Anders was the last person he’d talk to about his grief. He’d start some kind of debate about how “if the circle weren’t such an intolerable prison Bethany could have gone there instead of being afraid of it, and maybe she wouldn’t have died in the Deep Roads” blah blah blah. Hawke wasn’t in the mood.  Isabela was also good company, but she was better for drinking with and ignoring things that were currently pressing. Varric was a shoulder to lean on, but this seemed too personal of a problem to talk about. Besides, Hawke knew, even if Varric wouldn’t admit it, that he blamed himself for his sister’s death. If Bartrand hadn’t locked them down there, she never would have died. Hawke didn’t blame him, it was hardly his fault, but Varric was stubborn and Hawke didn’t feel like having a one sided conversation with him about Bethany.

 

Fenris was offering confidence, and maybe Hawke could finally accept some and try to move forward. This was going to be hard.    
  
“She…” He finally started. “She was always so kind…” Hawke’s gaze was on the floor, but what he was seeing, Fenris did not know. “She would stop Carver and I from bickering when mother was too tired to fret. She would… she wanted to be as good a cook as mother, and she was always practicing in the kitchen. She would swat my hands away when I would steal from the unfinished pies or cakes.”    
  
Hawke smiled at the memory, and Fenris wondered if maybe this hadn’t been the right choice. He didn’t to make Hawke grieve even further by bringing up the past, that was the last thing on his mind. But if this was what helped, then so be it. He listened intently as Hawke continued.    
  
“She had soft hair. She was afraid of the dark. She had mother’s eyes, and father’s mouth. Father would dote that she was going to make a fair wife one day.” He scrunched up his nose in a smile, the first one to seem genuine in a long time.    
  
“Once when she was young, she brought home a wolf pup she found in the forest, and begged mother to let us keep it. It was a wild animal, of course, mother would never allow it. Bethany was so distraught. She cried…” Hawke trailed off, and Fenris wondered whether he was too stricken to continue. His head hung low, eyes shaded by his long hair. Fenris ignored the way Hawke’s voice creaked.    
  
“She cried when mother told her to release it. She cared so deeply about everyone, about everything… All she wanted was for others to be at peace. She was so pure.” Hawke paused, bring his face up to rest in his hands, rubbing at his eyes and muffling his voice.    
  
“Maker, it should have been me,” he said.    
  
Fenris spoke for the first time in what seemed like years of silence. “That is not true,” he said gently. “It shouldn't have been anyone at all.”    
  
Hawke didn’t sound angry when he spoke, just unbelievably broken. “Of course it bloody shouldn't have been anyone. But if it had to be someone, it should have been me. It’s… it’s my fault. I took her down there. It shouldn’t have been her. Not Bethany, not… my sister.”    
  
Fenris was at a loss. He had expected to perhaps be an ear to listen, but Hawke falling apart in front of him was not what he had imagined. Hawke was always so strong and resilient in the face of danger. Fenris had seen him kill ten men at once with a quick flash of his hand as he sent a spell flying across the field, seen him brave mountains and death traps by the enemies and wild animals and maker knows what else. He’d seen him mercilessly kill men he had never met just for the sake of some coin, or on the word of one of his companions that someone deserved to die. He had never seen Hawke so… vulnerable. Not when facing down a half dozen blood mages, not when the odds of success seemed so slim, not when he was lying on the ground unable to stand as he’d taken the brunt of the battle on his own to protect his comrades. Hawke was a man like any other, privy to failure and loss and sadness, but never had Fenris seen him so thoroughly succumbed to his own despair. In the mere year that he had known him, Fenris would never have imagined that Hawke would one day be sitting in his lounge room spilling his guts over his deepest regrets.    
  
“If it is any consolation -” Fenris started, the words tumbling foolishly out of his mouth as he attempted to stop Hawke from breaking before his eyes. “- although I suppose it is not - I have wanted to apologize. You… were clearly suffering during our travels. From the lyrium. It should have fallen on the remaining members of the group to protect your sister while you were vulnerable. I am sorry I was not… I apologize for not being more help to her.” He didn’t add the part he had been thinking earlier, that he should have died instead of her, just as Hawke had been saying of himself. Of the four of them that were present, Fenris was certain he was the least afraid of death, and the most suited to be claimed should death come for someone. He’d thought of it many times, wondering how long his good fortune would last as he escaped its clutches yet another day. Though try as he might to keep it hidden, Hawke seemed to sense what he left unsaid. He lifted his head from his hands, eyes red as tears clung to his lashes, his face pale but his expression full of brief and fleeting anger.    
  
“Andraste have mercy, don’t say that,” he said. “Don’t do that, Fenris… don’t apologize. Maker, you think I would rather see you, or someone else, dead in her place?“    
  
“No, of course not,” Fenris agreed. “I did not mean to equate myself to her, I -” Hawke cut him off with a wave of his hand, fixing him with a gaze so stern that Fenris stopped mid-sentence.    
  
“That isn’t what I meant,” Hawke muttered. “Not at all. I wouldn’t have wanted any of you to die any more than I wanted Bethany to die. When I say don’t apologize, it’s because I don’t blame you or anyone else in the least for what happened.”    
  
“We were all there,” Fenris countered. He reached forward and touched the back of Hawke’s hand gently, the way he had done so many times to bring his focus back to reality. The tips of his fingers tingled when he touched Hawke’s bare skin with his own. “It is not your fault, Hawke.”    
  
Fenris watched as Hawke’s breath hitched in his throat, watched the way he closed his eyes to force back the tears he knew were coming. He would not cry now, he had to be strong. This was not Fenris’ burden to bear, even if he wanted to. He had to be strong for Bethany’s memory, and for his mother’s sake if nothing else. No matter how much he wanted to curl into a ball on the floor and never move. The ache in his chest was phenomenal. He hadn’t felt this disgusting since Carver died, nearly two years previous. Or since his father died, three years before that. Was this to be a pattern, then? Shortly after attempting to settle down in a new place to call home, someone else would be taken from him? Who was next - his mother? His friends? Fenris? Isabella? Merill, or Anders, or Varric, or Aveline? He could not bear the thought.    
  
Hawke leaned forward, placing his grasp atop Fenris’ small fingers, clutching his hand desperately. Fenris took all his might not to flinch away, knowing that Hawke needed some small amount of peace. As much as he wanted to comfort Hawke, he still did not like being touched. But for Hawke, maybe just for now when he needed it most, he would make an exception. Hawke’s hand was cold, and calloused from years of wear and a tough life. Fenris could feel how badly he was shaking.    
  
“Maker,” he said finally, wiping his eyes with his free hand. He tried to smile but it didn’t quite settle on his face like it should. “I don’t think I’ve had near enough wine to be crying just yet.”    
  
And in just a moment, the atmosphere broke. Hawke gave Fenris’ hand a final squeeze before letting go. He stood and turned away from Fenris, rubbing his eyes and standing close to the fire. He leaned against the wall of the hearth, hands resting on the mantle. Hawke’s silhouette was large, his shoulders giving a small heave as he exhaled. Fenris remained in his chair, unsure how to proceed with the sudden change in the temperature of the room. He got the unexplainable feeling that Hawke was definitely done talking.    
  
“Hawke,” he began, thinking something needed to be said to close the subject, but not knowing at all what to say. But instead, it was Hawke who broke the awkward silence.

  
“I can't stand it," he said, voice quiet as a whisper in the dark. "I don’t want to lose anyone else.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Shartan's word, the sky grew black with arrows. At Our Lady's, ten thousand swords rang from their sheaths, a great hymn rose over Valarian Fields gladly proclaiming those who had been slaves were now free. - Shartan 10:1, Dissonant Verse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wikia gives only a little information on Shartan, and the exact name of the book that Hawke gives Fenris as a gift isn't stated (2 or 3(?) book titles about Shartan are mentioned but its unclear which one was the one Hawke gives him) so I just creatively made up the title. As many times as I've played through this game (like 8) I've only found the book once on my latest playthru because I always forget to go get it.

Try as he might, Hawke never seemed to get lost in the fade. This was a small feat in and of itself - the span of the fade was enormous, fanning across the width of an entire country, as if it were the size of Thedas. But Hawke always ended up in the same place, even if he never decided where to go. Something always seemed to tug him towards that familiar location; the clearing where he’d met Compassion for the first time.

And Compassion was always there. Hawke never endeavored to enter the fade while he slept, although all mages could, with the help of lyrium. Few who entered without lyrium’s aid ever remembered their time there, and Hawke considered himself fortunate to be able to recall his meetings with Compassion. He could count the number of times they’d met in the last two decade on both hands, but still, it was a fortune not many ever acquired. He knew a bit about mages who entered the fade at will, but he was a far cry from being able to walk the paths of the fade by choice. His mind was drawn to the fade against his intents, if not against his wishes. He enjoyed Compassion’s company.

When Hawke was younger, he never doubted the nature of their meetings. Being so young and untrained in his knowledge of the fade, he had no reason to believe that this spirit's intentions were anything save for just. But older now, he knew this most likely wasn’t the case. Even a benevolent spirit always wanted something in return for sparing its time. Hawke knew that Compassion must have a reason for always being present in his dreams; denizens of the fade don’t just latch on to mortals in their sleep without a second desire behind their true purpose. But he couldn’t stop himself from dreaming, and had no wish to stop his meetings with Compassion, so for how he held no contempt. The spirit was always willing to listen to his troubles, even if they never talked for very long

Hawke quickened his pace as he turned the corner to the clearing, knowing Compassion’s golden glow would soon be within sight. And he was not disappointed. The spirit was there, arms at his side, glowing as brightly as he ever had. Hawke stopped at the mouth of the clearing, waiting for Compassion to turn towards him before he continued forward.

“Garret Hawke,” he said. He was smiling, but there was a sadness behind his eyes that Hawke hadn’t seen in a long time. “Here we are again.”

“It’s been a few years,” Hawke said. He stopped a few feet short of where Compassion stood at the edge of the clearing. The light that fell off his figure gave the trees behind him a yellow tint. There was something Hawke always admired about Compassion’s appearance. Not his looks, but his literal shine. He seemed to flow, light pouring off of him like water, or just as easily like molten magma dripping from his skin. It poured off his shoulders and towards the ground like someone was dumping an unending bucket of liquid gold over his head. His eyes glowed with white light, little spotlights in the distance. He flickered and pulsed like the gentle flame of a candle, throwing shadows on the ground and the objects around him. Hawke always half-expected him to be as warm as he looked, but he was as untempered as the stagnant air around them. He looked no different than the first time Hawke had met him, over sixteen years ago. Although, spirits didn’t age like people did. They just were.

“There is no time in the fade,” Compassion said. He always spoke with an underlying matter-of-fact tone. His voice had a distinct lilt to it that Hawke could never place. Too sharp around the vowels to be Ferelden, to neutral to be Antivan, too soft to be found from Kirkwall. It was a sound all his own, one that matched his appearance. The words seemed to drip from his mouth with the sweetness and cloy of honey. His voice somehow echoed in the open air, words layering over one another to create a harmonious effect, like he was singing. ”It exists only within itself. But I would not doubt that it has been some years since you have come here; you are grieving over something that had not yet come to pass the last time we met. Have you come to mourn? You know I would be willing to listen.”

Hawke wondered if Compassion might already know what he was still grieving over, even if he did not mention her by name - he hadn’t seen Compassion since the night before Bethany’s death, three years previous. He had no desire to dwell upon her, not here. Not while his heart still ached over the loss. Compassion tilted his head to one side, smile fading with worry.

“No, I haven’t,” Hawke said, pushing the memory from his mind.

“And yet, here you are,” Compassion said, opening his arms. It wasn’t an accusation, just a statement. “You blame yourself for the past. You wonder if there was something different you could have done.”

“I dealt with my grief a long time ago,” Hawke said. It was a lie, a terrible lie, and he knew that Compassion was not fooled. But still, maybe he was trying to convince himself more than anyone else.

“Garret, child,” Compassion said. His voice was gentle, and flowed through each word like he had them memorized by heart. “You need not fear your own emotions. Thoughts and feelings shape humans and spirits alike - to deny them is to deny yourself. With no emotion to guide you forward, there can be no purpose.”

“Then am I to let grief be the emotion that drives my purpose?”

Hawke tried not to let anger color his tone as he replied, but it was too late to take back the edge to his words. He wasn’t angry at Compassion, he didn’t think he ever could be, but he was angry with himself, something he hoped the spirit understood.

Compassion frowned and shook his head. Hawke felt like there was something he wasn’t saying, a secret that Hawke should have known by now. He had no idea what that might be, but the spirit always spoke with such vague terms and phrases it was hard not to imagine his words hiding a double meaning; even though there was a strong chance they did. Compassion stepped forward and closed the space between them. His footsteps made no sound as he walked, as if his presence had no effect on the world around them. He placed his hands on Hawke’s arms, eyes full of concern as he spoke.

“No,” he said. His voice was firm but lithe, like the waters that coursed through a stream and wore even the strongest stones to mere pebbles over time. “You are to accept. Denying the past will not change the future. You can only take what the past has given you, and let its course run. It is what you chose to do with your past that changes things for the better, or for the worse.”

Hawke might have normally shrugged off a hand of comfort, but with Compassion, somehow it was different. He was familiar to Hawke in a way that he couldn’t place - something beyond the estranged and infrequent meetings he relished. Something about his features made Hawke feel like the spirit was taking on the appearance of someone he used to know, but he could never quite name who it might be.

“What is _your_ purpose?” Hawke asked. Compassion smiled then, a smile that seemed to make his glow shine brighter than before. His genuine happiness was contagious, and Hawke felt himself relaxing in this spirits wake. This, he thought, was why he enjoyed Compassion’s company. The spirit had a way of making things feel _right,_ even if everything in the real world was going so terribly wrong. If he was of a mind, he might have known that the way a spirit had such a hold on him in his dreams was worrying. But he never did worry about that here.

“To care for others,” Compassion said, but Hawke had almost forgotten the question. “And to care for you. I was drawn to you while you were very young. You have a capacity for love I have not seen in a long time. Do not let wickedness taint your heart. I would not like to see you suffer corruption.”

Hawke nodded, lost in the conversation. He had wondered, just in the back of is his mind, why Compassion was always so willing to listen and talk with him. Hawke had no experience with any other spirit, and did not know if it was common for them to frequent one person. He knew that spirits embodied the virtues of people, and that was why they often sought out those with strong virtues like their own, like Justice had done for Anders.

But then... that wasn’t a connection he had ever made before. What if Compassion was only interested in him because he wanted a way into the real world? Just like Justice needed Anders to manifest outside of the fade. What if Compassion only wanted to walk amongst the living? He seemed to sense the thoughts that clouded Hawke’s mind, even if he did not know exactly their meaning.

“There is a darkness in your mind,” he said. “Do not doubt yourself, lest your decisions falter in consequence.”

As he spoke, Hawke felt the familiar stirrings in the air that signaled he would be leaving soon. Compassion seemed to blur around the edges before fading from view, and then the world turned black.

  


//

  


It was always strange, waking from a trip to the fade. When Hawke later thought on his visits, he often felt like they were memories and not just half forgotten dreams. He never quite knew what to take from his conversations with Compassion. The spirit always offered advice, even if his words often seemed to need a little deciphering. He was always distracted the next day as well, his mind flitting in and out of events of the present like it couldn’t decide where it wanted to be.

Again, as always when waking, he wondered who he should tell about his conversations with Compassion. The question of “if” was long gone - now that Hawke knew more about spirits and demons, it was clear to him that this matter needed to be shared with someone he trusted enough to understand. His options were limited to the number of mages he knew personally, but even of the two of them - Anders or Merrill - something seemed to keep him from sharing with either of them. Merrill wasn’t his first choice. But neither was Anders. Neither of them were neutral parties on the subject, and Hawke wanted someone that would listen to him, not try lecture him into a corner. With half a mind, he wondered if he should have told Bethany all those years ago. If she were still alive, she would easily have been his first choice. But she wasn’t, he said to himself firmly, and there was no use dwelling on the would have’s or should have’s.

He walked slowly, taking each step with determination. The streets in Hightown were wide and cobbled and frequented by flights of stairs, and it wouldn’t do to trip over his own feet first thing in the morning. Hawke hadn’t a destination in mind, but “out of the house” was the first place he knew he wanted to be. He wandered aimlessly for a time, finding he’d come back in a circle. He paused at an archway entering the Market, stopping beside an on-duty guard at the end of the stairs.

“Good day to you, serah,” The guard said. His voice was slightly muffled by his armor. Hawke nodded in response with a unintentionally curt “carry on”, before strolling through the market stalls. He hadn’t the mind to actually buy anything, but at least looking through the ample wares in the market would be a distraction. On occasion, someone would nod in his direction, meeting his eyes for a fleeting moment before returning to their business. He knew the people here would recognize him. Try as he might to stay inconspicuous, he _had_ arrived quite suddenly into the city and then rapidly declared himself as proprietor of an estate that previously was “abandoned” - the cities polite way of ignoring the presence of slavers. His family’s reinstated ownership of the Amell estate turned quite a few noble heads. Hawke knew the family used to be held to a high regard, but that was a long time ago. And he was no Amell, no matter how his mother tried to marry him off to continue the heritage or how many times she polished the Amell family crest that hung in the foyer. But still, people stared. He had no doubt that many of the people here had indeed been living in Hightown since before his mother left. Maybe they remembered them, and expected him to live up to the family name.

Fully distracted now, Hawke looked up to find himself standing in front of one of the smaller stalls near the end of the Market. It was nothing but books, and a small man sat on a low stool in their midst, one thick bound novel in his hands.

“Good day, serah,” the man said. Hawke had no mind to look through books, they weren’t exactly something he ever needed, but the man had already caught his attention. Giving him a nod, Hawke’s eyes flitted across the spines of the books teetered haphazardly the table and shelves, glancing at the titles. He recognized a few from what Varric had mentioned fondly as cherished favorites, and a few he had even seen his mother reading in front of the fire. One book caught his eye, however, and he reached to pluck it from its place on the desk. It was small and thin, its binding worn and wear ridden. It looked like it had been opened many times. The spine was cracked and torn, threatening to drop the pages to the ground. Faded golden lettering, barely readable in its age, spelled out the title. “ _A History of Shartan_ ,” Hawke read aloud.

The man tending the stall looked up, noticing the book in Hawke’s hands.

“A fine read, messere,” he said. His smile was wrinkled like the fine crease of Orlesian silk. “Although, I never managed to sell that one. Shame, it is. It’s such a good book.”

Hawke knew only a little of Shartan, his knowledge limited to lessons from the Chantry or stories from his father. Of course, the Chantry itself considered Shartan a heretic and spoke of him negatively. His father spun quite a different tale, and was thus inclined to believe that the story of Shartan’s “heresy” was the Chantry’s way of stamping out rebellious instigators. Regardless, the novel took his interest. He paid the man and held the small book in one hand as he continued through the market.

As if he had come here for the sole reason of finding this book, despite that not being on his repertoire, Hawke decided to leave. The sun was finally rising in full over the staggering buildings along the streets of Hightown, giving the air a warm caress. Hawke still felt a bit out of himself, an after effect of spending time in the fade, and wondered if he should find somewhere to settle for the day to keep busy.

Rounding the corner to the Chantry square he bumped right into someone in his distraction.

“So sorry, I- Oh, Fenris,” he said, once he realized he knew the man. Hawke seemed to bounce right off of Fenris as if he’d been expecting the impact, and Hawke braced against a nearby pillar to avoid toppling over. “Maker, are you made of brick?” He asked in jest at Fenris’ immovable stance.

“Hawke,” he said in surprise. Ready as he was, he hadn’t seen Hawke turn the corner either. “No, I am not made of brick. Not last time I checked.”

Hawke straightened himself as Fenris glanced at him warily. Hawke probably looked as out of sorts as he felt. Fenris was wearing civilian clothes - well, of a sort. As close to civilian clothes as Hawke had ever seen him wear; he wasn’t wearing _all_ of his armor, at least.

“Have I caught you leaving?” He asked. He jerked at the robes on his chest, straightening them out and hoping he didn’t look entirely disheveled. Fenris watched his hands, eyes darting up to Hawke’s face as he spoke.

“No, I’ve just returned from Lowtown,” he said. “I was walking back to the mansion when I suddenly became a brick wall and crushed a pedestrian, as it would seem.”

“Yes, quite,” Hawke said with a smile. “I’ll be sure to check for broken bones later.”

Fenris watched Hawke under the fringe of his hair, his eyes boring straight through Hawke’s skull. Maker, Fenris had a way to pin people with his gaze alone. He was always watching others, scrutinizing and sizing things up for danger, always alert and cautious. It was a hard habit to drop, even in a casual setting. Hawke wasn’t much taller than him, but the way Fenris held himself always made him appear smaller, more closed off. Very precise and accurate with his movements, no wasted momentum or wishful thinking. Hawke could appreciate his down-to-earth nature, even if he were a bit radical at times.

“You’re welcome to accompany me, if you wish,” Fenris said. His eyes watched Hawke’s hands brush the hair behind his ear. “I had no further plans once I returned.”

Hawke deliberated for a moment, but decided Fenris might just serve the distraction he needed to calm his buzzing mind. “Sounds excellent,” he said. Fenris nodded and continued ahead, Hawke falling into step at his side. “I _love_ hearing all about the bandits you’ve killed recently. Do fill me in.”

Fenris scoffed a laugh, shaking his head. Hawke noticed that he wasn’t holstering his usual greatsword, opting for a smaller and less conspicuous set of daggers secured at his side.

“If you desires gossip, I’m afraid I would make poor company,” he said. “It’s been some time since I’ve talked to Varric. My detail of town scandal is limited to my neighbors. And in their case, _I’m_ the scandal.”

“Now that, I would have to hear,” Hawke said. “Can you just imagine what the Orlesians must be saying about you?” He put on a mock flattering accent. “ _Oh dear, did you see that elf in the square this morning? Frightened me to bits, he did!”_

Fenris laughed dryly, thinking that might probably the least disconcerting thing people said about his presence in Hightown.

“Frightening, am I?” He questioned, to which Hawke replied with a roll of his eyes, “ _I’m_ not Orlesian.”

Hawke made sure to watch the corners as they continued up towards Fenris’ mansion. Fenris explained he had been in Lowtown to sell the things he’d collected off the bodies of a band of slavers, not feeling comfortable enough to try navigating the market in Hightown. As they settled in a few tattered armchairs by the hearth in the lounge room, Fenris finally asked about the book that Hawke had been carrying.

“Oh,” he said. “I saw it at the market. It’s about Shartan, and I’ve heard a few of his stories but never anything in great detail.”

Fenris took a few sips of wine straight from the bottle as he decided what to say. Even after so many years, Hawke wasn’t used to seeing Fenris with so little armor, and to see his hands without gauntlets sharp enough to pluck out a man’s eye, he almost seemed… normal. That was perhaps too harsh of a word, considering half the people Hawke kept in his company also constantly wore a full suit of armor, but he never pictured Fenris the type to let his guard down in such a way. Hawke often felt that Fenris’ armor was not only a defense, but something to hide behind. Maybe he liked being able to scare grown men twice his size with a single glare. The effect would be quite lost without his normal, threatening attire. “Frightening” had been correct, indeed.

“What do you know about Shartan?” he asked. Hawke hoped he hadn’t noticed the way he was staring at Fenris hands grip the wine bottle.

“Not much,” Hawke admitted, shifting his gaze to the hearth.”I know he helped Andraste free the slaves. But the Chantry considers his actions heretical, for some reason. I don’t know why I bought it. But it seemed to catch my eye at the time.” He shrugged. “Maybe you’d appreciate it more.”

“Why?” Fenris asked sharply, suddenly. He sat forward in his chair, riding the edge of his seat. Hawke looked up, not missing the way Fenris’ face quickly fell from neutral interest to anger. “Simply because he was an elven slave? That is a rather cruel piece of irony, even from you, Hawke.”

Whatever Hawke had expected, it wasn’t this.

“Maker’s arse, I didn’t buy it as a _joke_ ,” he said, shaking his head. Fenris had a knack for jumping quickly to the wrong conclusions. Hawke would admit he didn’t originally plan on giving the book to Fenris, but he should have considered he would take it in the wrong light. Fenris didn’t exactly take kindly to jabs, either true or perceived. “I wasn’t trying to mock you. I said ‘appreciate’, not ‘enjoy’.”

Fenris seemed to realize his pass in judgement as much as Hawke had realized his. A small moment of silence passed between them before Fenris spoke again.

“You assume much,” was all he said in reply.

“You can always burn it, if that would make you feel better,” Hawke said, trying but ultimately failing to lighten the atmosphere.

“No, I apologize,” Fenris said. “I would like to keep it. It is a thoughtful gift.”

Fenris reached out to take the book from Hawke’s hands, and his fingers curved around the edges of it as if in its defence. He swiped a hand over the cover, touching the delicate lettering of the title.

“I fear the sentiment is lost,” he said. “Slaves were not permitted literacy.” He opened the book and flipped through a few pages, stopping at random to glance over the words he couldn’t understand. Hawke had never given a thought to something he always considered so primary, but of course, he had never been a slave. The ability to read and write was only a luxury to those it was not readily afforded.

“It’s not too late to learn,” Hawke said.

“Perhaps,” Fenris replied offhandedly, as if he didn’t believe that were true. He paged back to the beginning of the book, to the dedications page inside the cover. In large print, a few lines were written with a heavy hand. It looked like a poem, or maybe a verse. Fenris traced his fingers over the letters, following the long swoop of decorative curls the author had made by the margins.

“What does this say,” he asked. Hawke leaned forward, bracing himself on the arm of Fenris’ chair.

“It’s a passage,” he said, reading the inscription. “from the Cumberland Chant of Light. _‘At Shartan's word, the sky grew black with arrows. At Our Lady's, ten thousand swords rang from their sheaths, a great hymn rose over Valarian Fields gladly proclaiming those who had been slaves were now free.’_ ”

Fenris hummed in response. “A romanticism I would not expect to surround the story of rebellious slaves.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hawke said. He was a bit torn between responses, not sure if he should try to lighten the conversation any or if making a witty response would be inappropriate. He settled for familiar territory. “Fighting alongside Andraste might have been pretty romantic, in it’s own way.”

Hawke counted it a win when Fenris chuckled. “I fear what you consider romance if you think battling to the death in an army of rebels qualifies,” he said, his knowing and watching eyes on Hawke’s face, reading him.

“I can be romantic when I want,” Hawke said indignantly, not breaking eye contact. “I could sweep you off your feet with my charm and good looks alone.”

Fenris rolled his eyes but laughed all the same. Hawke enjoyed this, the gentle banter that he could share with him. It was different from the others, different in a way that Hawke couldn’t name. Talking to Fenris was always pleasant, and Hawke had been correct in hoping he’d be a distraction to ease his unsettled mind.

Fenris downed the last of his bottle before he replied, “As you say, Hawke.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and friends battle a group of Tal-Vashoth over a flower, and then he and Anders talk about developing relationships - between themselves, and between others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got a lot longer than I anticipated but I didn't see a point in splitting it up any, so here we go.

“Bloody  _ flowers _ ,” Anders said, picking his way through the dead bodies at his feet. “We almost died collecting a weed.”

 

Per se, the Tal-Vashoth hadn’t been guarding the Harlot’s Blush, the plant they’d been sent to collect, but they might as well have been. Upon a scrub of sparse grass on the edge of a cropping of rock, the flower grew waiting to be picked. If you could forge past a band of murderous Qunari, that was. They’d only agreed to the task the Herbalist had sent them on as a favor, Hawke had explained beforehand. He’d paid good coin the last time they helped out, and Hawke had no issue in helping again. He had almost gone alone, not thinking to ask for company in collecting herbal supplies, but Anders suggested tagging along so they could explore a cave they’d recently found nearby. After then deciding to find Merrill and Fenris and bring them along as well, it turned into an actual scavenge. In the end, it was this stroke of luck that saved Hawke and Anders’ lives. If they’d gone alone, they’d both be killed, slain by the unexpected band of Qunari on the tops of the hills. Or if Anders hadn’t asked to come along, Hawke would have been slaughtered in just seconds against such a sheer number of enemies. 

 

“Anders!” He heard Merrill shout from down the path. “Hawke needs help, please.”

 

Without a word from either of them, Fenris deftly followed Anders down the narrow stone steps to where Merrill was crouched over Hawke, fanning her hands and not knowing what to do. Hawke was propped against a large stone wall where it was clear he had been bodily thrown against it. It looked like whoever he was fighting had given up once he’d fallen unconscious, which was another stroke of luck they needed. Anders gently shoved Merrill out of the way and bent over him to check for a pulse, and then look for the worst.

 

His arm was bent at a terrible angle. Blood trickled from under the sleeve of his robes and coated his hand, a small pool of it forming at his side. Anders pulled out a hand-knife from his belt and started tearing off Hawke’s sleeve, careful not to disturb the injury, to get a better look at what he was dealing with. Tossing the bloodied fabric to the side, he heard Fenris curse under his breath as they all simultaneously saw the damage. Hawke’s entire arm and shoulder was torn to pieces, muscle in tatters like someone had taken a switch and hacked it off bit by bit. Two metal spikes were buried below his collarbone, broken off from the spears that the Qunari seemed to favor wielding. Anders felt a small wave of nausea when he saw bits of bone poking out of Hawke’s arm, but bit it down and tried to concentrate.

 

“He is an enormous fool,” Anders heard Fenris say from behind him. Anders thought that was a little harsh to say of an unconscious man, but looking back to where Fenris stood, is was clear - six Tal-Vashoth bodies lie in an arc about ten feet from where Hawke had landed. It looked exactly like he had tried taking them all at once. Anders heard Merrill utter a quiet “oh, my” to his left, where she stood in a half crouch, wringing her hands and looking like she wanted to help. Anders ignored her and Fenris both, gently pulling Hawke down to lie flat against the sand. Fortunately, there had been no Serabaas to contend with, or Anders’ doctoring might have ended up being tending to a corpse. Hawke definitely would have taken him on alone to spare the others. 

 

Dredging up the last of his mana and hoping he didn’t pass out from over exertion, Anders began to heal. Letting his magic work its way through Hawke’s unconscious body, he closed his eyes and searched for any injuries he hadn’t noticed at first, or any internal damage, and was admittedly relieved when he found nothing substantial. Hawke wasn’t in any life-threatening danger and, besides his arm and shoulder, hadn’t sustained any inconceivable blows. At least the arm was salvageable. 

 

“He’s okay,” Anders said with a reluctant sigh of relief. Fenris, however, didn’t look convinced. 

 

“He’s unconscious,” he said. As if it weren't blatantly clear that he was unconscious at the moment. Worrisome elf was no help at all. 

 

“He’s okay, he’s just unconscious,” Anders tried. Fenris rather looked like he wanted to pick up a spare pike and run Anders through, but remained silent. Anders tried to concentrate on Hawke’s broken arm next, but a sudden pull of exhaustion tugged at his chest and he had to stop and brace himself against the ground. Fenris looked worried, but Merrill knew he was running dangerously low on mana. 

 

“Oh, dear, don’t strain yourself,” she said, putting her arm under his and helping him keep upright. ”I can help, you know, if you would -”

“You’re a terrible healer, Merrill,” Anders cut in. He was half tempted to wrench his arm out of her grasp but feared he might topple over without the support. “And you know it.”

 

Merrill seemed unfazed by his insult, instead pulling out a small vial of lyrium from her pouch and handing it to him. Anders downed it greedily, feeling the energy pulse through his veins for a moment before he continued healing. 

 

“That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try, at least,” Merrill said softly. “I want to help.”

 

Anders was fit to be tied before he let Merrill try and heal someone, especially Hawke. Bad enough of a mage as she was, he thought, doing blood magic and all, her healing prowess left much to be desired. 

 

“I think Hawke would rather his arm be in-tact when he wakes up - ” Anders said. He could feel a bite to his tone that it was too late to take back. As much as he disliked Merrill, she was as worried over Hawke as Anders was, and he knew it was unfair of himself to berate her for that. “ - and not, say, missing all his bones, or something.”

 

“I can heal it,” she said. She watched Ander’s hands begin to shake as he tried and failed to heal Hawke’s mangled arm. Anders knew he wouldn’t be able to do anything more than piecing the bones back together. The muscle and skin would have to be left alone until Anders had enough mana and energy to complete it, or until Hawke awoke and could manage healing himself. He was still unconscious, however, and Anders was concerned he may have a concussion. Merrill pressed forward when she saw Anders hesitation. Her determination was strong enough to rival Hawke’s, at times. “I can heal him with blood magic.”

Anders scoffed at the suggestion. He withdrew his hands from Hawke’s arm, glad that at least the bone was no longer in a dozen pieces. Maker, he was fortunate he had no sore eyes for the sight of blood and bone. All mages had the capacity to become healers, but only those with a strong stomach could hardly get past their first open wound to learn anything besides basic healing techniques. Healing internal injuries was different, and someone always learned the hard way that you can't fix organs or large coils of muscle successfully without a tremendous amount of skill. 

 

“Blood magic,” he said, practically spitting the words. “Why do you always have to resort to - ” 

 

“It’s not a  _ resort,  _ it’s a method,” Merrill quipped. The excuse sounded like something she’d said many times. “Blood magic is magic, like any other, and - ”

 

“Enough!” Fenris said from the sidelines. Both Anders and Merrill turned to glare at him only to quiet their remarks at the anger written clearly on his face. “I’m tired of your bickering. And while you squabble like children, Hawke is still yet to be healed. Perhaps we should consider our priorities. One of you, do something. With no blood magic.” 

 

Anders and Merrill shared a glance, each mentally deciding if it was worth continuing the pointless argument, before Anders replied. 

 

“I can’t do anything else for him. His arm was crushed and I’ve healed the bone, but I don’t have the mana or energy to heal the muscle and skin. If we get back to the clinic I have more supplies, but if he wakes up before I can heal him any more he’s going to be in considerable pain. If the injury had been worse, I don’t think I could have saved the arm at all.”

 

Fenris exhaled in frustration. “Then can we move him without  _ making  _ things worse.”

 

Anders deliberated for a moment, looking between Merrill, who was still kneeling at Hawke’s side, and Fenris as if deciding whether any of them were going to be able to carry him. Anders copied Fenris’ sigh of frustration. 

 

“Maybe,” he said. Fenris must have decided this answer was good enough, for he said nothing in reply. He started to remove his sword, preparing to help Anders haul Hawke all the way back to Darktown, when Merrill spoke up from Hawke’s side. 

 

“Oh, he’s waking up!” she said with what seemed like relief. Joining her on the ground, Anders and Fenris remained wordles as Hawke shifted a bit and finally opened his eyes. 

 

“Fuck,” he exclaimed immediately, and foolishly tried to sit himself up. Fenris and Anders both pressed forward at the same time, laying a hand on his chest to keep him in place. 

 

“Don’t move,” Anders warned, and Hawke stilled beneath them. “Your arm was nearly torn off, if you thrash about you’ll undo what little healing I’ve managed.”

 

“Is it,” Hawke said, looking down at his hand. His eyes were unfocused and he had a rather dazed look about him. Anders feared his suspicions of a bad head injury were confirmed. Hawke closed his eyes after a moment, looking understandably pained. “... really hurts.”

 

“Yes, it’s going to,” Anders said a bit dismissively. If he had a serious head injury, this could be less simple than just taking him back to the clinic. Anders could do nothing for a hit to the brain. “Hawke, listen to me, I need you to answer a few questions.”

 

Hawke didn’t reply, just opened his eyes and flitted them between the others surrounding him. 

 

“Quite a lot of fuss, isn’t it,” he said. The jest was ill suited for the tension in the air. His face was twisted in a grimace as he reached his working hand up towards his shoulder and tapped the ends of the spear heads poking out of his flesh. “Do me a favor, would you? These hurt.”

 

Anders cursed under his breath, and then again out loud. The spear heads were something they should have dealt with while he was still unconscious, although Anders wasn’t sure if he should touch them at all. 

 

“If I remove them now you could bleed out. They’re going to have to stay put till we get back to the clinic.” 

 

“What manner of mage  _ are  _ you,” Fenris clipped from Hawke’s side. “So useless on the field of battle that you can’t heal one person’s injuries.”

 

“Oh, Fenris, that’s rather rude,” Merrill interjected at the same time that Hawke said, “Be nice, Fenris.”

 

Anders ignored the others and glared at Fenris as he pulled out a strip of elfroot for Hawke to chew on, hoping it might ease the pain. “I don’t exactly see you doing anything to help,” he said bitterly in Fenris’ direction. 

 

“ _ I’m  _ not a healer or a mage,” Fenris snapped back at him. “You are both and still seem incapable.”

 

“No? I bet if you were, you wouldn’t even need a staff. You could just kill all your enemies by glaring at them, or felling them with your evil murderous intent. It practically gushes off of you.”

 

“My murderous intent is about to fell someone as we speak,  _ mage, _ ” Fenris said. Merrill decided to cut in between them before they could argue further. 

 

“Hello, you two!” She said impatiently. “Who’s bickering now? Anders, please stop saying mean things to Fenris. Just help Hawke, won’t you?” 

 

Anders decidedly ignored how Merrill had failed to point out that Fenris started it and switched his attention back to Hawke, who was already half-asleep.

 

“Hawke,” Anders said, snapping his fingers in front of Hawke’s face, trying to get his attention. “Do you remember what happened?”

 

Hawke looked distracted for a moment, flexing the fingers on his working hand a few times before he replied. 

 

“Qunari,” he said finally. “We were here to get a flower for the herbalist. They ambushed us from the side of the path. After that, I... don’t remember.”

 

“What’s wrong with him?” Merrill asked with a hand over her mouth. Fenris glared at Anders as if he had been about to ask the same question. “Is he alright?”

 

“He’s got himself a head injury,” Anders offered. Hawke seemed indifferent to the fact that he was the subject of the conversation. “It’s internal, but I don’t think it’s going to kill him.”

 

“Then explain -” Fenris said, sounding as frustrated as Anders felt. “- what you  _ think  _ it’s going to do.”

 

“It’s… probably not bad,” Anders said, although he was uncertain of this diagnoses. In all his work as a healer, he didn't normally deal with anything more severe than a broken arm or a few cracked ribs. Healing internal injuries was something only healers with decades of experience could accomplish. And even then, that was limited to puncture wounds or internal bleeding. Healing someone’s brain, in the physical sense? Not many mages could do anything for that. “Unless his head was seriously knocked around, he’ll be fine. He’s just going to be severely tired and ill-tempered for a while, which is going to make the trip back to the clinic even harder if he keeps passing out.”

 

Fenris opened his mouth to retort, but Anders waved a hand. “Don’t bother arguing with me. I can’t heal his bloody  _ brain _ . I’m a mage, not a miracle worker. Just help me for a moment. Hawke,” he added, gently placing a hand on his good shoulder. “We’re going to stand you up. Can you support yourself?”

 

Hawke paused and considered before he said, “I think so.”

 

Giving Fenris a nod, Anders carefully placed a hand under Hawke’s back and Fenris tucked himself under Hawke’s working arm. Merrill took a step back, but kept close in case Hawke decided to topple over and take them both with him. Even for a mage, who were generally smaller and lesser built than soldiers, Hawke had a decent amount of bulk to him. Fenris had the strength to carry him easily, but lacked the gracefulness to do so without injuring him further.

 

Hawke muffled a pained groan as the weight of his arm pulled on his shoulder, and Anders quickly grabbed the discarded sleeve he’d torn off from before and fastened a makeshift sling. Hawke looked somewhat steady, but Anders was grateful that Fenris remained at his side with one arm around Hawke’s waist. He had gone entirely pale from just the exertion of standing, and his face had broken out in a cold sweat. 

 

“Maker, I feel like I’m going to be sick,” he said. His good arm was slung around Fenris’ shoulder, Fenris clutching his hand and letting Hawke lean against him to keep him upright. For once, Anders was glad Hawke had brought him. Without Fenris’ strength to help this would have been a lot different. 

 

“Can you walk?” Fenris asked. He didn't move, waiting for Hawke to take the first step, which he didn’t do either. 

 

“A little,” Hawke said. He sounded like he was holding down vomit. He finally took an experimental step forward and everyone collectively exhaled in relief. Anders followed and placed a hand on Hawke’s back, glad that at least they didn’t have to try and carry him. But the trip down sundermount and back into Hightown was going to be anything but a pleasant stroll. 

 

“Merrill,” Anders said, thinking of the few miles of coast they had to travel before they even left the shore. Merrill clutched her staff, awaiting Anders instructions. “Take the lead. Watch out for anyone else we’ve missed.” Merrill nodded, moving in front of Fenris and Hawke. 

 

“Fenris,” Anders continued, loathing himself for what he was about to say, because he knew Hawke wouldn't allow it if he had the strength to protest. “If we’re ambushed again, don’t hesitate - you have to take Hawke and run.”

 

Fenris nodded in understanding, damn him, so eager to abandon the others even though it had been an order. And after a moment, Hawke seemed to come out of his daze and back into the conversation. 

 

“Anders, you can’t do -”

 

“Yes, I bloody well can,” he said. Hawke stopped short when it was clear Anders wasn’t in the mood to argue. “You are in no condition to fight at all. Fenris is strong enough to carry you on his own if he has to, and Merrill and I can hold them off or distract them until you’re safe, and then escape.”

 

“So... leave me here,” Hawke said in retort. Anders almost laughed at the idea; of  _ course  _ Hawke would volunteer to sacrifice himself. “Leave me here, and get reinforcements. The three of you will be fine on your way back if you’re more prepared. If I go with you now I’ll slow us all down.” 

 

“Are you a fool?” Fenris said, and for once Anders had to admit he agreed with him. “Undoubtedly, there are other Qunari on the coast. When they find you you’ll be dead, and even if they didn’t, you are gravely injured. We’re not going to leave you behind.”

 

“But, you- Fenris, I - ” Hawke began, looking distraught. 

 

“No,” Fenris said simply, and Hawke fell silent at his stern tone. “We are not arguing this further.” 

 

Hawke looked very much like he wanted to argue further, but Fenris took a small step forward and Hawke was forced to follow. Merrill jogged a few paces ahead and held her staff at the ready, and it was only then Anders realized she had Hawke’s staff as well. She was muttering under her breath; Anders guessed at an incantation for still winds so she could better hear her surroundings. Fenris glanced at Anders warily before staring ahead, flitting his eyes to Hawke’s face often and asking if Hawke needed to stop every time he groaned in pain. Anders thought this was going to be a long trip indeed. 

  
  


//

 

With the coast gratefully behind them, Anders had quickly unlocked the doors to his clinic to let Fenris stumble forward. Hawke was conscious enough now that he was fully aware of the pain in his arm and grit his teeth every time he shifted the wrong way. Fenris helped him sit on one of the cots in the corner of the room while Anders found a spare lyrium potion to take, and another to give to Hawke. He dealt with the pike heads first, having Fenris hold Hawke down as Anders dug the metal spikes from his shoulder and then quickly healed the gaping wound left behind. Hawke joked about keeping them as souvenirs and Fenris rolled his eyes. 

 

Healing his arm was going to be a little trickier. If a bone wasn’t already properly in place when a healer tried to mend it, it would heal crooked. Anders had already done his best to heal the bone of his arm itself, so attempting to piece back together the muscle and skin was his next great task. Anders was reminded of his time during Vigil’s Keep, when he first started honing his healing powers. The Keep was so short staffed that there were only a handful of proper healers within the its walls, and even then they were often dispatched on missions on the Keep’s behalf. In his free time, Anders worked in the infirmary as a healer, if only out of necessity. He learned a great deal about how to heal injuries, mostly because he spent so much time learning what  _ not  _ to do from his own, and other people’s, mistakes. Forced to tend to injuries far past their experience level, healers would often mend a bone incorrectly. Then Anders would have to break it again before he could heal it properly. He shuddered at the memories; breaking bones wasn’t exactly his favorite past time. 

 

“I have to realign the bones before I finish mending them, or they’ll heal crooked,” he said, and Hawke nodded. Fenris was still seated at Hawke’s side with a hand on his back, in case he decided to fall unconscious again. Merrill was standing hesitantly by the door to the clinic, watching them work nervously as she kept silent. “Fenris, I need you to hold his arm at the wrist so I can pull his fingers back into alignment. Don’t let me tug on his shoulder.”

 

Fenris wrapped one hand around Hawke’s wrist, and Hawke grunted and cursed under his breath as Anders pulled each of his fingers straight. Once Anders decided they would all work properly, he started mending the muscle on his arm. Both Hawke and Fenris watched with gruesome interest as Anders pressed his hands close to Hawke’s forearm, which, thanks to Anders healing back on the coast, looked like it’d been healing for a few days instead of a few hours. Muscle and sinew began to piece itself back together before skin started slowly knitting across the surface. The wound, or wounds, now looked like they’d been healing for a few weeks, thick lines of scar tissue forming across his broad shoulder and stretching down to his wrist. 

 

When he decided he was as finished as he felt safe in saying, Anders leaned against the pillar behind him and exhaled an exhausted breath. Merrill finally took a step forward from her place in the doorway, wiping her face with the back of her hand. 

 

“Is it over?” She asked, taking a few steps closer. “Is he alright?”

 

“Yes, he’s alright,” Anders said, throwing her a questioning glance. She was standing back, holding her staff in front of her hesitantly. At Anders unspoken question, she answered. “Sorry, I’ve never been much good with injuries. They always, um, make me very nervous.”

 

“A blood mage who’s afraid of blood?” Anders asked with a laugh. Nothing was particularly funny about the situation, but the irony struck him. Hawke threw him a slight glare and Fenris’ face turned into a snarl as soon as Anders said the words “blood mage” aloud. 

 

“That’s different,” Merrill said. Leaning her staff against a pillar near the door, she finally entered the clinic and sat down at Hawke’s side opposite Fenris. “That’s my  _ own  _ blood.”

 

“Are you alright?” Hawke asked her, in part to disrupt an argument he could see coming, and the rest in concern. Anders scoffed and Merrill looked confused before she answered. 

 

“Am I? Yes, I mean, I’m fine, but Hawke you do know that  _ you  _ were the one who nearly had his arm ripped to little pieces. Aren’t I supposed to ask you if you’re alright first?”

 

“I feel alright,” Hawke said. “I’m just tired.” He clenched and unclenched his now-working fist, flexing the muscles in his arm to test that they all worked. He swiped a hand down his arm, tracing a faint line of scar tissue that touched all the way from his upper arm to his wrist. 

 

“The scarring was inevitable,” Anders said. Scarring was always hard to work around when dealing with large open wounds. “There was no way to avoid it with how extensive the damage was.”

 

“I could probably heal them for you, if you wanted me to, Hawke,” Merrill said, but Hawke shook his head. 

 

“No, I’m not bothered by them,” he said, and Anders released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. It was a sign of an expert healer that no scars were left behind, and Anders was always halfway self conscious about people being upset they’d been left marred. He knew Hawke wouldn’t care, he already had enough scars from years of fighting and living off the streets, but still, Anders held that worry in the back of his mind.

 

Besides, healing scar tissue after a wound was already closed wasn’t something you could do with regular healing magic. 

 

“You  _ weren’t  _ just about to suggest healing his arm with blood magic, were you?” Anders asked, even though he full well knew that’s what she had been about to suggest. 

 

“I told you I could help,” Merrill said. At his side, Hawke felt how she stiffened up to take on a defensive tone. “I was telling the truth. If you’d let me try I could have healed it while we were there.”

 

“Possibly,” Anders admitted. “But besides the fact that we both  _ know _ you are not a skilled healer without using ulterior motives, I’m not about to let you use blood magic in front of me, or on Hawke.”

 

“Hey, Hawke could have his own say in this,” Hawke said of  himself indignantly. He could feel the argument stirring again and hoped there was a way to ease everyone out of it before things turned worse. Luckily, Fenris had decided to stay quiet - for now.

 

“Yes, Anders,” Merrill said in a rather self-righteous tone that was unlike herself. “Don’t speak for him. Maybe you could have just asked Hawke if he wanted me to try and help.”

 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Anders said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “Next time when Hawke is about to die from blood loss, I’ll be sure to take my time and consider every single possible option, even if I have no intention of letting anyone heal him but  _ myself.” _

 

“Enough, the two of you -” Hawke started to say, futilely attempting to interrupt one or both of them, but they were in a right and proper row now. Anders and Fenris arguing he was used to. It usually diffused when one of them crossed some invisible line and left the other too angry to speak, which wasn’t a good way to end an argument, but at least then they didn’t argue for long. Merrill, however… was stubborn. 

 

“Why are you always so selfish!” She said. She stood then, throwing her fists to her sides angrily. Hawke was half-tempted to physically pull one of them out of the room, but hadn’t the strength. “You never consider anyone else’s feelings about things. You act like you’re the only mage around here who can do anything. I’m not useless! I didn’t want Hawke to die, but you wouldn’t even let me  _ help.  _ You always make it sound like you’re the only one who cares about others, and I’m just some- … like I never- … like I’m just some evil  _ demon  _ who only cares for herself.” 

 

Anders opened his mouth to speak, eyes flashing bright blue for just half a moment before fading back to normal. Maker, Hawke thought, this was going very badly. And the problem was, Hawke could understand both sides of the argument. 

 

Anders was furious that Merrill had accused him of not caring for others feelings because of course, how  _ dare  _ she suggest he didn’t care about others when he ran a free clinic out of his own pocket and tried to bring justice to mages and see the world see the injustice of the Templars across Thedas. “Not caring for others” wasn’t something Anders did. And Merrill, in her own way, cared for others as well. All the work and time she’d put into attempting to restore honor for first her clan, and then all of elvhen. She cared deeply about many things, too much sometimes for her own good. 

 

Hawke wanted to speak up and disrupt them before they decided to lash it out right here in the clinic, but knew that taking one side would anger the other further. What he didn’t know - but of course, should have guessed - was that Fenris had his own opinions about the subject and it was only a matter of time before he voiced them. 

 

“Enough!” he shouted. Hawke felt the cot shift as Fenris stood, and now Hawke was the only one sitting down. Not that standing would have helped anything, and he didn’t know if his legs would support him in the first place, but he rather felt like he was never going to get a say in this. 

 

“ _ You _ are a fool,” Fenris said, glaring at Merrill first before rounding on Anders. “But  _ you _ are a hypocrite. For all the filth you spout about how much you  _ loathe  _ blood magic, you are no different. Both of you turned to methods you knew were forbidden when you needed power. How are you better than a blood mage? How are you better than  _ this  _ blood mage? Assign blame if you wish, but you cannot deny that you are as much at fault as  _ any _ mage that uses whatever means they can to gain power. Whether you wanted the power for evil or not. Whether you sought it out and embraced it, or fell prey to it. You are the same as any of the others, the same as her. You two are no different, and I am equally disgusted to be in the presence of either of you, let alone  _ both  _ of you.”

 

The silence following his conclusion rang loudly in the small clinic, and no one quite knew what to say. Fenris sat down again, looking between Merrill and Anders in turn as if daring either of them to retort. Merrill looked confused, hanging her head and wringing her hands. Anders looked, somehow, more furious than before, but gratefully kept his argument to himself. 

 

“Fine,” he said, throwing his hands up in defeat. Each of them refused to look in Hawke’s direction as if they’d all suddenly remembered that he was, too, in the room, and were ashamed they’d completely ignored him. “Fine, bloody fine. I’m not about to argue with you on this, and I don’t want to argue with anyone at all.”

 

Turning on his heel, he strutted towards the other end of the room as if to leave in a fit of anger before he realized they were still in his clinic. He turned back to see Hawke muttering something to Merrill under his breath while Fenris stood and paced towards the opposite wall. 

 

“Get out of my clinic,” Anders said, pointing towards the door. “If you’re not injured, I want you to clear out.”

 

Merrill opened her mouth to speak but Hawke gently grabbed her by the wrist, and when she glanced at him over her shoulder, he shook his head. “I’m glad you’re well, Hawke,” she said, and then without another word, she collected her staff and walked quickly out of the room, shutting the door gently behind her. Anders could feel Fenris glaring daggers at him even from across the room, and turned towards him next. 

 

“That means you,” he said pointedly. Fenris didn’t move. 

 

“I’m staying here to assure that Hawke is indeed well,” he said. His words were kind, but there was a snarl riding his voice that didn’t match up. Anders wouldn’t doubt he was using that as an excuse just to spite him. 

 

“He’s fine and well without your presence,” Anders said. Hawke gave Anders a pleading look, asking him silently to please shut-the-fuck-up, which Anders ignored. “I’d rather not have your company, at the moment.”

 

Fenris deliberated for a moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. After sharing a look with Hawke that Anders also decided to ignore, he hefted his sword onto his back and left. 

 

“Anders,” Hawke said as soon as the room went silent. 

 

“Don’t ‘Anders’ me,” he said. He was close to kicking Hawke out as well, wanting to spend some time alone with his thoughts, but wasn’t about to send out someone who might collapse on the walk home. “I honestly don’t know why you ask me to accompany you for things when you bring either of them along.”

 

“Because we’re friends, and I like your company,” Hawke said simply. Anders almost bit back his retort, but decided the night was already ruined. 

 

“More than you like  _ his? _ ” 

 

Hawke scowled and huffed under his breath. “That isn’t fair,” he said. There was no accusation in his voice, but Anders immediately regretted his choice of words. 

 

“No, nothing's fair, I suppose,” he said bitterly. Anders turned towards the cupboards against the far wall, not looking for anything really, just something to busy his hands so he didn’t have to look Hawke in the eyes. “The Maker must really hate me, to send me someone like you and then snatch him away again.”

 

“What are you talking about, Anders.” His voice was gentle, but it wasn’t a question. 

 

“You!” Anders shouted. This hadn’t at all been where he thought things were going to escalate to, although he had anticipated some level of escalation. Not that these things didn’t need to be said, but now was not the right time and hardly the right place. When Anders turned back around to face Hawke, Anders half expected him to look angry, but instead he looked… sad? “You’re a mage - an apostate - someone who has every right and reason to hate the templars and the circle but you always take his side! He hates mages, Hawke, I don’t understand why you - “

 

Anders paused, again considering if he should stop before he made things worse. But the night was still young, Anders thought. Perhaps he’d be able to make Hawke feel like utter shit, as well as his companions. 

 

“I don’t understand why you  _ like  _ him.” 

 

And even as Hawke tried to deny it, Anders could see through him with ease.

 

“Anders, don’t do this - ” Hawke started, his face falling into a pained expression. Anders felt guilty about yelling at an incapacitated man, but this was Hawke. Anders always voiced his opinions before, now should be no different. Except when Hawke looked so bloody downtrodden as Anders continued speaking, regretting his outburst more every second. 

 

“What do you want me to do, then?” He asked, trying to soften his voice. Hawke wasn’t meeting his eyes, just staring at his hands folded in his lap. “You… you  _ know  _ how I feel about the freedom of mages, about oppression from the circle, and yet you keep company like him and expect me to just… just be fine with it? To just ignore the things he says while you defend him? Even now, when he speaks to freely about mages in your company, you try to keep peace that doesn't - that  _ can’t  _ \- exist between us.”

 

Anders paused, thinking  maybe he should stop talking and try to end this before he made Hawke feel worse. He had stumbled into things that he knew weren’t really his business, and he was using his activism for mages as a cover to pry into Hawke’s personal life and his choice of friends. It was unfair of him, and Anders knew it, but he cared too much about the justice that mages deserved - and cared too much about Hawke - to let someone like Fenris come into their lives and…  _ corrupt  _ things. Anders was under no impression that Fenris might be something ridiculous like like a spy for Meredith, of all things, but Hawke’s resolve for Anders’ plight was hardly concrete. 

 

Anders knew that, besides all else, Hawke could a powerful ally. An apostate who makes a name for himself and rises against the forces of the templars would be a slap in the face to Circle’s all over Thedas. Proving them wrong, that mages aren’t helpless creates in need of protection. If Hawke could defy all odds and come out above all his problems, why couldn’t any other mage? But his resolution was lacking, and it bothered Anders to no end that he couldn’t easily detect how Hawke felt about the circle’s oppression. With an apostate sister, it should have been clear. But Anders had seen many mages in Hawke’s position - distraught over the death of a loved one, who was a mage that was killed from unseen forces because they were outside the circle’s protection. Many of them believed that if only they had been in the circle in the first place, they wouldn’t have died. This could very well be how Hawke imagined Bethany’s death - that maybe if she and Hawke had been in the circle in the first place, Bethany wouldn’t be dead and Hawke would still have both his siblings. 

 

Anders was worried that in his malleable state, an outside opinion from someone who hated mages and said they should be feared might change the way Hawke views the world at large, and more importantly, his position in it as a mage. 

 

“Hawke, listen,” he said softly. He moved to sit at Hawke’s side, clasping him on the arm. Hawke didn’t met his eyes, just continued watching his hands, which were clenched together in a tight fist. Anders reached down and placed his hand over Hawke’s, finally getting his attention. “I’m sorry I brought this up. It’s not my place to question you like this. For that, I apologize. But -” he continued when it looked like Hawke was trying to speak. “- that doesn’t mean I don’t worry. And that’s not me just being biased against Fenris. That’s me, as your friend, worried about you. I don’t want to see your opinions or actions swayed by others. You… are a very deterministic man, Hawke. I know you care for others and try to factor their opinions into your life. But some things, you need to decide for yourself.”

 

Hawke remained silent for a moment, and Anders took it as a sign of good fortune that Hawke didn’t pull his hands from Anders’ touch. 

 

“I know,” Hawke said finally. “But I… I can’t change how I feel about him. We disagree on a lot of things concerning mages and magic, but he isn’t without reason and I won’t deny him his hesitations.”

 

“Of course,” Anders said. He was only slightly relieved that Hawke seemed to understand his position in the situation. Simultaneously being friends with two people utterly opposed to one another would lead to some difficult choices in the future - ones he didn’t think Hawke was ready for. But at least he knew of them. “Just… don’t let him - ...” Anders faltered, trying not to name names. He squeezed Hawke’s hands as he finished. “...don’t let  _ anyone _ make you feel bad about yourself.”

 

Unbelievably, Hawke smiled. He unclasped his hands and ran them through his hair a few times when he spoke. “My, Anders,” he said, a mischievous grin spreading on his face. “I didn’t take you for the jealous type.” 

 

Anders laughed then, feeling the tension in the air slowly dissipate. He wasn’t sure if their conversation had gone or ended in a way he had hoped, but at least it didn’t seem to have ended on a bad note. Of the people he’d come to know during his time in Kirkwall, Hawke was probably his only friend. It might not have been the most well forged or solid friendship, but they could both share some perspective on their situation. Anders wasn’t about to let him be taken in by someone like Fenris, and then tossed aside when it was clear where the elf’s loyalties lie - not with mages. Anders would be damned before he let that happen. He’d lost too many good people to people's fear of mages for him to watch others be hurt, too. 

 

_ I won’t _ , Anders thought. He’d watched too many mages fall prey to the templars, or turned tranquil against their will, or be brainwashed into thinking they deserved their fate, or succumb to the power of demons, or be branded maleficar just for the being born with the gift of magic. It was unfair - unjust - how the world took good men, good people, good mages, and corrupted them beyond recognition. 

 

_ I won’t let them win,  _ Anders thought.  _ I won’t lose Hawke, too. _


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Elgara vallas, da'len. Melava somniar. Mala taren aravas, ara ma'desen melar." 
> 
> The sun is set, child. It's time to dream. Your mind journeys, but I will hold you here.
> 
> // Hawke comes to understand his personal feelings, among other things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The translation I use that Fenris describes I pieced together from the elven language article on the dragon age wikia, found here - ( http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Elven_language ). The meaning of ‘Fen’ is clear of course (meaning wolf), but I took some liberty in making a translation for ‘ris’, which I decided to coin as a sort of suffix. Only three words that we know of end in ‘ris’ (or use it at all), but they all have similar meanings, only if because they all mean something strong or powerful, as Fenris points out. The definitions that Fenris gives are straight from the wikia. On his article, it’s stated that “Fenris” does in fact mean “little wolf”, however in the elven language article the word “little” has it’s own clear translation (“da” - often used in conjugation with other words like “da’len” (meaning “little one”) or “da’assan” (meaning “little arrow”)). I suppose when the article states that “Fenris” means “little wolf” that this is Denarius’ translation or meaning, and not an actual one. I would love to hear commentary for other possible translations if anyone has any. Conlangs were one of my most favorite things in the world for years so I hold a soft spot for them now, so I’d love to hear your take on things!! 
> 
> Also, I’ve read theories about Fenris’ markings - one of the ones I find most interesting is that when Fenris’ markings are active he’s going partially into the Fade, which which is why he can phase through solid objects. The wikia says his markings have “something to do with the Fade” and doesn’t specify, but I always thought that this theory was likely. I like to think that he’s sort of stepping into the Fade temporarily (not physically but like with his soul?) and then when he deactivates his markings his soul snaps back and he solidifies. I dunno, it's an interesting theory that I wish I could make more out of but I need to read more about the Fade before I can make any other points. I haven’t been able to play Inquisition yet (my computer is a dick and doesn’t have the CPU to run a game that’s 27 damn gigabytes) but I’ve been looking up bits of dialogue on youtube about Solas’ comments and discussions on the Fade hoping that maybe something he knows will make Fenris’ ability a little clearer. Or, at least a little easier to theorize how it’s possible. Again, if anyone has any ideas I would love to hear them!

Admittedly, Hawke had lost count of the number of times that he’d visited the fade. He never aspired to consciously walk that familiar path when he slept, but every so often something tugged at his mind and he found himself back there again. That same path, the same clearing, and the same glowing figure.

“Compassion.”

He was there again. He was always there, and Hawke was not surprised to see him, but grateful. There were few people he’d known long enough to consider familiar faces, but Compassion was one of them. It had been nearly seventeen years since they’d met for the first time, but for the spirit, it felt like only a moment.

“Garret Hawke,” Compassion said. That was his simple way of greeting, as if Hawke’s presence were already greeting enough. He stood at the edge of the clearing, like he always did, hands behind his back and smiling at Hawke like he was welcoming home a loved one.

Hawke smiled back, following the curve of the path towards where Compassion stood waiting, as if he’d been there since Hawke had last left him. What did benevolent spirits do, anyway? Hawke wondered if he might ask at some point, if it wasn’t considered rude to ask a spirit if it had a day job. As Hawke approached, Compassion’s smile seemed to falter. Hawke stopped just short of where Compassion stood, and he placed a hand on Hawke’s shoulder.

“Your mind is more clouded than when we last spoke, child,” he said. He looked worried, but his tone was light. His eyes were wide, taking in Hawke’s face. Hawke thought it was a little unnerving, being stared at by eyes that had no pupils, just a solid orb of golden light. His eyes shown like the rest of his body; blinding bright but soothing and cleansing at the same time. “You seem content, but there are things troubling you.”

Hawke felt Compassion’s hand grip his shoulder, a friendly touch, something he missed. 

“I am well,” he said. His voice was too loud in the eery silence of the fade, echoing off the trees and falling into the empty depths that surrounded them. “There’s just a lot on my mind.” 

“So it would seem,” Compassion said. “There is something causing you great happiness, and also great pain. You are unsure of yourself. You do not know which choices to make to see that things ends in your favor. Or… perhaps someone else’s favor?”

Compassion smiled and tilted his head when he finished his sentence in a question.

“Am I that easy to read?” Hawke asked in jest.

“Minds speak louder than words,” Compassion said. “All one has to do is listen. But still, I do not know the finer details of your happy dilemma. Let us talk.”

He released Hawke’s shoulder and took a step back, waving Hawke along to follow him. “Come,” he said. It was a request, a demand, and an offer, all in one, and Hawke felt both both the obligation and the desire to follow. Hawke had never seen Compassion except in the clearing, and he’d never offered for them to walk together, either. Hawke didn’t question where they were going, but wondered if something was amiss.

“Tell me, Garret,” Compassion said. They started walking out of the opposite end of the clearing, down a small path that led towards a thicket of trees. In all the times he’d been in the Fade, Hawke had never traveled further past the clearing where Compassion always stayed. When they were together, he never saw a reason to leave. Compassion walked with quick, lithe steps, his bright glow leaving a trail of light in his wake as he walked, like the echo of a shadow following him. “Is there someone important in your life?”

Hawke faltered for an answer, knowing exactly what Compassion meant. Someone important, more like ‘are  you in love.’ Hawke thought it strange that this was the subject the spirit had decided to bring into question, but then again, this _was_ a Spirit of Compassion. It only made sense he would be curious about the relationships between mortals. An image flashed in Hawke’s mind; a head of white hair, a grimacing smile, wide, green eyes as beautiful as shining gems - Hawke wondered if Compassion could see him, too.

“Someone important?” Hawke asked, deflecting the question and faking oblivion. He kicked a stray stone out of the path but it faded and disappeared before it could roll away. The Fade was so strange. “I suppose you mean important to me, specifically.”

Compassion smiled again, nodding once. “You suppose correctly. But you seem unwilling to relay.”

“It’s not every day I get to indulge in gossip,” Hawke said with a laugh, but Compassion shrugged, saying, “It cannot be gossip if it’s already true.”

“Good point,” Hawke said. “Yes, I suppose, there is someone… important in my life. Although how mutual the feeling is, I don’t know. I think that’s the part that’s causing me ‘great pain’, as you put it.”

“This person is important to you, but you do not know if they feel the same way.”

“Typical, I know,” Hawke said. “Unrequition and whatnot.”

Compassion led them down a fork in the road that wound around a large lake, or perhaps an ocean - the water bent over the horizon, unmoved and sleek as glass.

“How do you know that their feelings are unrequited?” Compassion asked. He spoke as if he was only playing along, as if he already knew all the answers Hawke was going to give to his questions. Hawke wondered if that was Compassion's omniscience or himself being apparent.  

“I don’t,” Hawke admitted. He let his hand trail along the tall grass beside the path they walked, watching it bow under his palm as he passed. “But it’s too much to hope for that it’s not.”

“And why is that?” Compassion asked. He kept his eyes on Hawke’s face, not looking at where he was walking, but not seeming to need to.

“He’s…” Hawke started, but trailed off. “It’s complicated.”

Compassion chuckled, a sound that flowed like honey and swept through the air like a chorus of singing birds. “Many things are, child,” he said. “Why not start at the beginning.”

Hawke sighed as he tucked his hands into the pockets of his robes. The path before them looked the same as the path behind. He wondered if Compassion had a destination in mind, or if they were going to continue walking at the side of the water. For the Fade, it was very pretty here.

“I don’t know if there is a beginning,” Hawke said, piecing together his thoughts. “I guess… I mean, I don’t think he dislikes me personally. But there’s no reason for him to trust me, and he’s very self-preserving. Not in a selfish way, but I know he’s been hurt in the past. And I don’t want to hurt him in the future.”

“Have you given him reason to mistrust you?” Compassion asked. Hawke ducked under the low-sweeping branches of a brake close to the water.

“No, Maker, I hope not,” Hawke said with an self-exasperated sigh. ”He’s… very wary of magic. He doesn’t understand- doesn't see how it’s not all about power or control. But it’s understandable because it's all he’s ever seen, and what he’s been taught to fear. I’m worried that if I make the wrong move, he would come to fear me, too. I don’t want that.”

“So you worry that he will misunderstand your intentions,” Compassion said.

“ _I_ don’t even understand my intentions,” Hawke said with a hollow chuckle. “I don’t know what I'm expecting. I would like to know him more, but he’s… shy. I don’t want to ask him questions and make him feel like I’m prying. His past isn’t my business, but he always seems very sad. Sometimes I wish I could help.”

“One doesn’t need to _ask_ a question for it to be answered,” Compassion said in that same cryptic way he always said things. “Perhaps you should listen more to his actions or feelings.”

“Not all of us are Spirits with the power to read minds,” Hawke said. He finally looked up to meet Compassions eyes and see he was still smiling.

“Reading minds is hardly necessary,” He said. Hawke didn’t know if Compassion had taken his comment as a joke or not. He couldn’t really read minds... could he? “There are answers everywhere. Listen, and you will understand.”

“That seems easier said than done,” Hawke said.

Compassion nodded in agreement, and waved him forward. “Come,” he said again. “I have something to show you.”

The followed the trail for a short while more, the land seeming to slope down into a shallow valley. They walked in silence, Compassions steps making no noise save for the slight rustling of his clothes as his quiet breathing. Hawke wondered again of his thought from earlier.

“What do Spirits do?” He asked. Compassion glanced at him, a questioning look.

“What do _mortals_ do?” He asked. Hawke faltered.

“That’s… It depends, I suppose?” He said, unsure, and Compassion replied with a nod.

“That, it does,” he said. “A Spirit does what it is meant to do - to fulfill their purpose. Whatever that entails is decidedly up to them.”

“And what do you do?”

“Me?” Compassion said, as if surprised he had been asked. “I visit others and listen to their plights. I am Compassion, after all. I offer guidance for families where it is needed, or help someone overcome the struggles of a personal dilemma. Such as yourself,” he added with a grin. “Once, I spent a time visiting young maidens when their sleep brought them to me. I helped them find peace with themselves, with the ones they loved, and with the ones that loved them.

“People look for you. They come to you, then,” Hawke said. “For your help?”

“None so much as you do, child,” Compassion said in reply. Hawke looked away, unsure if he should be abashed. “There is a great deal of sorrow in the mortal world. Whatever fate the Maker has bestowed upon us, or them, I do not believe anyone deserves to suffer. Look,” he added. “We are here.”

They turned a sharp corner in the path where it ended at an abrupt precipice, only a few feet high but overlooking a small open field, lined on the edges by trees and dotted with shrubs amongst its midst. To one side, nestled in the far corner, a stream jutted through the forest, branching off to make its way around the clearing. Perhaps from the same lake they had been walking around earlier.

More distracting, however, was the figure in the middle of the clearing, surrounded by a dozen creatures that it seemed to be fighting. But they all looked… strange somehow, Hawke thought. Not the solid body of someone in the fade, but not spirits either. They were ghostly and pale, hardly just the outlines of people. The figure in the middle of the battle kept flickering, going in and out of focus and sometimes disappearing altogether to reappear a few feet away from where he stood. Sometimes he would fade almost totally from view and solidify (can a ghost solidify?) again a few seconds later. Other times he would shine brightly for a moment before fading back to his ghostly green outline, always unrecognizable.

“These aren’t spirits,” Hawke guessed. He wasn’t close enough to any of the figures below to see their face with clarity. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“No,” Compassion said. “This is a memory.”

“A memory?”

Compassion nodded. “Yes. Sometimes, especially where the veil is thin, things of the mortal world press against the Beyond and leave an imprint of the events. It doesn’t always happen, and often if any memory, any imprint, is left here, it’s quickly forgotten and the scene fades.”

Hawke watched the figure skirt across the field, wondering if the familiarity of the scene was something he should have noticed. Everything in the fade seemed familiar, like it was all a distant thought in the back of his mind. “What’s keeping this one here?” He asked.

“You are, child,” Compassion said politely. “Do you not recognize this?” He asked as if Hawke should have been able to identify the scene immediately. As if the person battling, seeming to dance across the ground with fluidity, glowing bright in the eery night of the Fade, swinging a hefty sword and standing his ground against the onslaught surrounding him, were someone he knew.

“It’s Fenris,” He said finally. And it was, now that he could put a name to the figure, his flashing and quick steps made more sense. Hawke watched him step out of line of an incoming attack, deftly swinging around to plant the butt of his sword on the face of someone behind him. He ducked down to spin on his heel and sweep his foot around to knock a few of them off their feet, taking just a second to stand before he cleaved his sword straight through one of them that dared to brazenly rush in head on. The ghostly body faded and disappeared before it could hit the ground. “A memory of Fenris.”

Compassion smiled, tugging at Hawke’s arm to pull them closer to the frenzy. They stepped down around the small rock outcropping they’d been watching from, closing in on Fenris and the few enemies left standing. They were just a few feet away now from the enemy farthest away from Fenris, close enough to breach the distance with a few steps.

“You think of him often,” Compassion said. “Your thoughts keep his memories strong while you are awake, and while you walk here they take shape enough for you to see. Look there,” he added before Hawke even had time to be embarrassed. Compassion pointed towards the opposite side of the field, where another figure was scurrying into the scene just as Fenris felled the last combatant. Even as what looked like a ghost, Hawke could recognize himself.

“That’s me,” he said in surprise. His memory-self stepped forward to where Fenris stood, where he might have stood amidst bodies in the real world, but the figures Fenris had slain all faded and disappeared, leaving him and Hawke alone. Hawke’s memory figure of himself watched Fenris sheath his sword before clapping a hand on his back, and Hawke thought he could see both of them smiling. After hardly a second, they both faded around the edges before being whisked away by the non-existent wind.

“Sometimes,” Compassion said. “Mortals with a talent for walking in the Beyond will come to relive the memories in its midst. This is one of such times. Left alone, the Beyond shapes itself to the desires or familiarities of those inside. Everything that exists here is an expression of thought. As long as there is someone to preserve those thoughts, they will linger.”

“That was…” Hawke started, unsure of how to articulate himself. “...different.”

“That does not mean you did not enjoy it,” Compassion said with a knowing smile.

“Oh, now you’re just jabbing at me,” Hawke said, matching his smile.

“Come now, child,” Compassion said, like a school teacher gently scolding a student. “I am very good at empathy. Perhaps not to you, but to me it is clear.”

“What’s clear, exactly?” Hawke asked warily. He didn’t know if he was ready for where this seemed to be going.

“I share the emotions of mortals who visit me, or those that I help. If you loved him - ” he said, and Hawke took a small intake of breath at the suggestion. Compassion placed his hand on Hawke’s arm, meeting his eyes. “ - then so would I. And I do.”

Hawke stilled, unable to think of anything to say. He glanced back at the field, empty now, the image of Fenris’ memory still fresh in his mind. He wondered if it bothered him that someone else could read his feelings so plainly, as if he wore them on his sleeve. But of course, he told himself again, this was Compassion. That was his purpose; to feel and share the emotions of mortals. He must be relishing in Hawke’s clearly apparent feelings at the moment.

Hawke wanted to say something, maybe thank Compassion for... whatever it was he did to make Hawke feel less unsure of himself. Not that the original issue was solved at all, the wonder of Fenris’ feelings towards Hawke himself. But at least in this, his own feelings for Fenris, he was certain.

“Go, child,” Compassion said in the silence. Hawke felt the familiar tug at his chest for just a moment, knowing he was going to wake soon. “There are other memories to make."

And as the world faded away and turned black, and Hawke woke to the dark night of the mortal world, he swore could still feel Compassion’s hand on his arm.  


 

//

  


For the fourth night in a row, Hawke couldn’t sleep. Just days after the events on the coast, not long after his enthralling conversation with Compassion about his love life, he’d begun to develop headaches that kept him awake at night. He tossed and turned for a few hours before giving up and settling by the fire to read a book or practice incantations, both of which always ended up making his headache worse until he was forced to lie in bed and do nothing. Sometimes he would take a walk around Hightown, enjoying the contrast of the city’s dark streets at night against its bustle during the day. It was mostly quiet at night, but it was a peace that was often disturbed by bands of thieves or thugs that enjoyed running the streets amok. Hawke avoided them if he could, not having the patience or manpower to deal with a group of idiots trying to claim Hightown for their own. He’d silently slip into an alleyway and out of sight, winding his way deeper into the back roads that only the merchants or commoners used. The nobles wouldn’t dare be seen on the backstreets of Hightown, the pavement was never clean enough, or something petty like that.

After walking a bit down a narrow side street he recognized an alleyway he could take to get to Fenris’ mansion, one he used to avoid being seen in the streets of Hightown during the day. Not that there was anything obscene about traveling through Hightown now that he lived there, but better to use the alleys and avoid the fuss of people all together. The nobles liked to stare. Apparently there was something too Ferelden looking about his appearance that make them oggle. Maybe being seen walking out of the Amell estate after having arrived in Kirkwall as a refugee but a year before had started gossip that continued to flow even now that he’d been there for years. Nevertheless, he liked to avoid Hightown’s open streets and populous nature, both at night and during the day.

It wasn’t a far cry of hope that Fenris would be awake; Hawke noticed he never seemed to sleep much at all. The few times some of their journeys or jobs had taken them days or even a week away from Kirkwall, Hawke noticed Fenris slept minimally when they pitched camp. He slept little during the Deep Roads, as well, often volunteering to take watch. But of course, sleeping lightly or seldomly could be attributed to the nature of the Deep Roads themselves. One could stand to sleep with an eye open down there, and sleeping lightly might not have been a habit he’d had before.

But of course, it was the middle of the night, and it might be rather rude to invite himself into Fenris’ home, sleeping or no. But there wasn’t much else to do in Hightown at dark, not if you didn’t feel like visiting the Blooming Rose for their midnight special, or fending the streets from the Silent Sisters or pretending soldiers. Hawke weighed his options for only half a moment before taking the alley that led right below a window on the second floor of Fenris’ mansion. Hawke knew it should be the main bedroom, although whether Fenris actually slept in the bed or just tucked himself in a corner to sleep was anyone’s guess. Hawke chuckled at the thought of him sleeping standing up, like an armored war horse.

Climbing up the sil, Hawke nudged through the open window when he saw a fire in the hearth. For a moment he wondered why it wasn’t locked, but thought that if someone was going to return for him then locked windows or doors would be Fenris’ least prioritized defense. Part of him chided himself for almost literally breaking into someone's house - it didn’t count if the window was already open, maybe - thinking it was a childish thing to do, but going up to the front door and knocking… Fenris never much cared for mundane formalities. Answering the door and letting him in like an indentured servant was something Hawke could never imagine Fenris doing. Yes, breaking in was a much better option.

Hawke snickered as he let himself drop into the room, closing the window behind him. Fenris wasn’t here, but neither was his sword - Hawke knew he only parted with it while sleeping, which meant he was either out somewhere or in another part of the house. Giving the room a sweeping glance, Hawke shouldered through the bedroom door and out into the main foyer. The moon shone through the dilapidated roof to cast a spotlight on the broken and skewn tiles on the floor. Fenris was there, sitting on the lower steps surrounded by a few candles, hiss word propped against the wall. The flickering lights threw dancing shadows on the walls, giving a few circular feet around where Fenris sat a warmer feeling than the the rest of the house. Hawke always thought this place was creepy. Maybe that was part of why Fenris never slept. Even without the memories attached to it for him, a house like this could keep someone awake at night.

“Hawke,” Fenris said without turning around. He was facing the opposite wall, something small held in his hands. “I may be mistaken, but I’m sure this mansion was built with a front door.”

Hawke smiled, striding up behind Fenris to share the little circle of light from the candles. Over his shoulder, Hawke could see that Fenris held a small book, worn with age and use. He sat down at Fenris’ side, careful not to catch himself on the candles flames.

“I could leave and come back properly,” he said, and Fenris rolled his eyes. “Knocking on the front door seemed silly.”

“But breaking in through the window was perfectly understandable,” Fenris countered. Despite Fenris’ seemingly aggravated tone, Hawke knew he was just being joked with, and smiled again. Fenris seemed to be in a good mood or sorts, and Hawke was glad.

“In my defense, the window was already open,” he said. “It can’t be considered ‘breaking and entering’ if all I did was enter.”

Fenris smiled, closing the book in his hands. He looked up towards the gaping hole in the ceiling where rain was starting to pitter down through the tiles.

“If you insist, Hawke,” he said. “Might I ask what spurred this visit?”

Hawke leaned back on his hands, while Fenris sat the small book at his side and curled forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He wasn’t wearing his gauntlets, and Hawke could see the markings on his hands and arms shine with the moonlight.

“I fancied a stroll,” Hawke said. “I couldn’t sleep. Looks like I’m not the only one.”

“I slept enough,” was all Fenris said in reply. Hawke followed his gaze to the ceiling where drips of rain were steadily falling into the room, making small pools on the floor.

“Do you know what it’s about?” Hawke said as he eyed the book Fenris has set down. The front of it was embellished with a few strange symbols he couldn’t place and a few words in a foreign language he couldn’t read. Hawke guessed it might be in Tevine, maybe an item Fenris had from his time with Denarius or something he’d found in the mansion. He recalled the last time he and Fenris had spoken of similar topics, when Fenris admitted he was never taught to read or write. Maybe it was more of a sentiment than something practical.

“I don’t know,” Fenris said. “It’s a handbook, a gift from the Fog Warriors.” Sentiment it was, then. “It has passages in different languages, that much I can discern. It’s primarily written in the trade language, but I can only recognize a few words.”

“Hmn. Maybe I could - ...” Hawke started, but trailed off as he second guessed his decision. How kindly, he wondered, would Fenris take to the suggestion of reading lessons. Hopefully not as an insult. He had shown interest in being able to read before, when Hawke gave him the book on Shartan. He should have offered back then to teach him, now it just seemed like he was suggesting the offer as an afterthought.

“I could teach you,” he finished. Fenris looked puzzled before he seemed to understand the statement.

“Teach me to read?” he asked. He almost laughed, as if it were a ridiculous idea. “I hardly think you have nothing better to do.”

“If you wanted to learn, I would be glad to,” Hawke said.

“Perhaps,” he replied after a pause, and Hawke couldn’t tell if this was a dismissal or not. They both fell silent, staring at the ceiling again. There wasn’t much else to do in the darkness, unless Hawke allowed himself to be distracted by watching Fenris’ hands fidget, or how they were sitting so close their knees nearly pressed together. Rain continued to steadily drip from the caving roof, splattering against the ground and running in a small stream that flowed into the neighboring room. It was cold, colder than it had been when Hawke first started his walk. He wondered if Fenris has some aversion to the heat or hot weather, considering the fire was lit but it was in the other room, and Hawke had never seen him wear shoes. Not even in the snow.

Hawke wondered what Fenris was thinking of. He had half a sense to ask what was on his mind, but let it be. He thought about his conversation with Compassion from a few days previous, wondering if Fenris ever thought about Hawke like Hawke thought about him. Of all his thoughts, he thought he sounded like a petty school girl.

“You’d think the senechal would seize this property,” Hawke wondered. He imagined the nobles didn’t take kindly to such an eyesore. Of course, that would mean someone would have to pry Fenris out from the inside of it, and he couldn’t see that going well either.

“You’d think,” Fenris said. “But they won’t. Denarius has full ownership of this mansion, and given the amount of money he’s so generously poured into the city’s pockets, I don’t think they’d risk taking the house and losing his coin.”

“Did you used to live here?” Hawke asked, wondering how Fenris might know something like that. He shook his head.

“For a time,” he said.” But I found his old records in one of the storage rooms. I found the notes of possession.” He smiled then, but it was harsh and bitter. “Ironically, the only part I could read besides the word ‘estate’ and the address of the mansion was the word ‘ownership’.

Hawke couldn’t think of a reply, and they sat in silence a time until a thought struck him.

“We could start now,” he said. Fenris threw him a questioning glance, and he elaborated. “Reading, I mean. You seem fond of that little book. We could start with that.”

“Hawke, I don’t know if - ” Fenris started, but Hawke stood and disappeared into one of the store rooms before he could finished. Searching around for a few moments, he saw what he’d been hoping to find sitting on one of the desks pushed into a corner - a quill and paper. It was almost too much to hope that ink wasn’t dried up, but Hawke found a spare bottle in one of the drawers that was still stoppered shut. Gathering his spoils, he returned to Fenris’ side who looked warily at the items Hawke had in his hands.

“Hawke, what are you trying -” he started again, but Hawke interrupted. “Look, I want to show you something,” he said. He took the scrap of paper and bore down on the step, filling the quill and scribbling a few letters in large writing. He handed the paper to Fenris, who glared at Hawke in reply.

“Giving me things to read does nothing to help if I cannot yet read them,” he said. There was just one word written down, but Fenris had never seen it before. Hawke shook his head and leaned forward to tap the paper gently.

“This is your name,” he said in a soft tone, breath fanning over Fenris’ shoulder in their proximity. Fenris paused, looking down at what Hawke had written. He traced his fingers over the letters carefully. Hawke’s writing was large and scrawling, letters bumping into one another and crowding the edge of the paper. Fenris mouthed the word - his name - under his breath, and Hawke remained silent. Holding the scrap of paper carefully in his hands, he replied.

“I spoke to Merrill, once, about my name,” he said finally. Hawke wondered dearly how such a personal conversation could have come to call between the two of them, but let him continue. “More so, Merrill spoke to me. She said it was old elvish, the language of ‘our people’. _‘Fen’_ means wolf, as in Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf of the Dalish tales. I knew that much already, as Denarius called me his _‘little wolf_ ’. But _‘ris’_ does not mean ‘little’, as I assumed it was where the rest of the pet name might come from.”

“What _does_ it mean?” Hawke asked as Fenris paused. When he continued, a small smile played at his lips, turning them up in a sharp grin.

“There is no sound translation for it,” he said. “But it is used in a sense that means something powerful. An ending added to a word to connotate fear or superiority. _‘Bellanaris_ ’ means eternity; _‘Evanuris’_ is a term used to refer to the old Dalish gods; _‘Felandaris’_ is ‘demon weed’, the name of rare herb used in strong poisons.”

He scoffed, shaking his head as he added, “I suppose I should be flattered, but the subtle irony is maddening. I wonder if Denarius knew the full meaning behind the name, or if he simply asked one of his other elven slaves to coin something for him. I have never been in a position of power. It would be laughable for the meaning of my name to be a coincidence.”

He scoffed as he finished speaking, and Hawke wondered if he should regret bringing up the subject. He had meant to give Fenris something personal, and thought that if he was going to learn to read or write, then his own name would be one of the first things he would learn. But of course… Fenris wasn’t his real name, but his given name. Hawke had never asked him if he’d ever wanted to go by something else. The thought seemed much too late now.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Hawke said when Fenris looked like he was finished lamenting. He spoke slowly, being careful with his words and trying to make his point clear. “But I think it’s very fitting, even if Denarius didn’t mean to name you something so… ironic… at the time. You may not have had power before, but you do now. It might very well have been to mock you, at the time, but I think by now you’ve more reclaimed your own name.” Fenris was silent, taking in Hawke’s words but not replying. Hawke smiled when a thought struck him. “Fenris the big, bad wolf,” he said, and Hawke felt relieved when Fenris chuckled at him. “I think it’s rather fitting.”

“It would seem so,” Fenris said plainly, but the grin crept up his face nonetheless, and Hawke was glad he’d edged a smile out of him. Only then did it occur that this conversation could have gone a lot worse, and he was relieved to see that Fenris didn’t take his actions or comments to offense.

After a moment, however, Fenris smile faded. He clasped his hands together, looking on the brink of saying something but keeping silent. Hawke didn’t question his sudden drop in mood, instead simply waiting for him to speak when he was ready.

“I have a wonder,” he said. “When I was with the Fog Warriors, they told me of a ritual that they could perform.” He held his hands out in front of him, staring at his palms. “To remove these markings.”

Hawke hummed in wonder. He had never considered there might be a way to have something so permanent erased. Hawke had little experience with arcane rituals that removed magic, considering removing magic was a templar tactic and mages didn’t normally have a dispel magic in the first place. But removing lyrium markings might be possible. It depended on a number of things, many of which Hawke knew were complicated and far beyond his level of expertise. But beyond that… it depend on Fenris himself.

“Would you want to?” Hawke asked.

“That is the issue, I’m afraid,” Fenris said. “My entire existence has been defined by my markings, ever since I received them it was made clear to me that they were more important than my life. And even now, they are important to me, whether I want them to be or not. But more than that, I - … If they were gone, I do not think I would know who I was any longer. I do not know if I would still feel right in calling myself by my name.”

“You’d... be the same person,” Hawke said after some deliberation. “But you’d be who you were before you received them.”

“I do not know him,” Fenris said. “I have no reason to miss that life. I suppose I should be angry for having so much of  my life taken from me, from before the ritual that gave me these markings, but I do not grieve over a life lost that I never lived.”

Hawke opened his mouth to speak but had no reply. He watched Fenris wring his hands together as they both thought of something to say. The conversation couldn’t end like this, Hawke wasn’t going to let things fall into bitter silence and let Fenris push away what needed to be talked about. But Fenris was right, and Hawke didn’t know how to comfort him. As much as Fenris could wish for his life from before, he had no memories of it and no way to take it back. He had no way to regain everything about himself that was lost from all those years ago, and yet… And yet, why did he miss a life he never experienced? He longed for the return something that he - himself as he was now - never had in the first place. Yes, maybe Fenris could reclaim his birth name, if he ever learned what it had been. But his previous life, even if it was a life he didn’t know, it was gone forever.

“ _Vallaslin_ ,” Fenris said, after a time. “The blood writing that the Dalish elves wear is homage to their gods. A few times, by ignorant humans, my markings have been confused as such. I was always angered by the comparison, but now the more I think about it, the more I feel they bear the same weight.”

“What do you mean?” Hawke asked. He could almost guess the reason, but hoped that if Fenris explained he might be proven wrong.

“Vallaslin is to show loyalty or devotion,” he said. “And my markings are for the same purpose. To show loyalty to a master… to show ownership. Even now that I am not with him, even now that I defy him, I still wear his brand. I am still his.”

“No,” Hawke said sternly. Fenris was still facing away, decidedly not looking at Hawke’s face. “You belong to no one but yourself.”

Fenris shook his head. “A noble statement. But if I don’t know who I am, then there is no point.”

“You are who you are,” Hawke said. “But you can be whoever you want to be.”

“That’s hardly sensical,” Fenris said with a scowl. “I can’t _decide_ who I want to be, or I would never have been a slave in the first place. And besides that, if I did chose a new life, what would stop them from coming back and taking it all over again?”

“Fenris,” Hawke said, reaching forward. He placed his hands over Fenris’, making him pause his nervous fidgeting. Hawke stared at Fenris face, but he didn’t look up to meet Hawke’s eyes. Hawke didn’t quite realize the weight of his words until he spoke them, but then it was too late to take them back - not that he wanted to. “They won’t take you while I’m alive.”

Fenris scoffed, but his fingers curled around Hawke's wrist. “A bold statement, even from you,” he said. “I never asked you to die so that I could be free.”

“You don’t have to ask,” Hawke said.

Fenris sighed in frustration and hung his head, freeing one of his hands to rub his eyes. Hawke was pleased that he left one hand in Hawke’s grasp. Hawke always felt he expressed himself better with actions than words, and was glad that Fenris was allowing Hawke to comfort him with this, even if it was small. Fenris was glad he cared enough to try.

“You’re very stubborn,” he said.

“Oh, excuse me,” Hawke said, voice raising slightly with sarcasm. “I enjoy seeing my friends happy and generally not enslaved.”

Fenris shook his head. “I won’t deny you that,” he said. “Thank you for deciding to break in. You were correct, I was having trouble sleeping.”

Hawke smiled, but understood a dismissal, and more than that he knew Fenris needed to be alone with his thoughts. Hawke didn’t realize how much he’d given Fenris to consider. He squeezed Fenris’ hands gently before sliding free of his grasp, standing and clapping him on the shoulder.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said. Fenris nodded and smiled at him, picking up the little book again and flipping to a page he’d marked. As Hawke left, he wondered if either of them would ever be more forthright with their feelings.


End file.
